Open Window, Darkened Sky

A certain house, a certain time. It is uncertain that this is being remembered, or dreamt of, but nonetheless, it is real.
That shock of returning to a room deep in evening time. This would be a first floor room - perhaps a childhood bedroom, or perhaps a spare room at your grandparents house. You have not been in the room since morning, oh bright and lost Sunday morning. Now you have gone back upstairs, crept up those Sunday evening steps - perhaps you are thinking of homework - perhaps you are older, some boy, some girl, some band - or perhaps this is only last week. As I said, I don't know whether you're remembering or dreaming this. Up the sacred hush of Sunday nights, and open that door to that spare room where you are currently sleeping. Sudden shock. Cool surprise. It is the cold that strikes you first, deep and precise as a church bell. The window has been left open all day, and the room is now filled with Sunday air.
You pause at the door of the room, breathe in that air, and in it, you don't just taste the night-air, but the afternoon too, as it falls towards night - that slow melancholy of the sun over horizon (touching the tips of trees, poplars swaying like windmills), oe perhaps earlier that day, rainy clouds blossoming and swelling with cold rain. You taste all this. Breathe in, breathe in. The church on the hill, the lane with the broken down telephone box (at least you presume it is broken). The silent horses in the ragged field. The newsagent you only go to on Sundays like this - though you haven't today.
You watch warily the unfamiliar angles of night. Perhaps the curtains move in a slight breeze, sway in that toothpaste-cool breath. Perhaps not. Curtains move because of the night. Even on the stillest of evenings, with the windows open, the curtains will still move.
Open window, darkened sky.
Phrase tumbles inside you, and you don't know where it comes from, but there is something about those four words almost incantatory. It makes you think of pylons, silhouetted against a blue-dark sky, of distant woods, and inside the trees, the sound of water, a small stream, an old wall, crumbling and covered with ivy, the downward glide of a white dove, looking for somewhere to sleep. Slide of ghost-wings, wary of owls and other dangers.
And of this.
Standing at a window, and looking out onto the night, so much like now, but not. Perhaps you are remembering this moment? As you stand looking at the window, thinking of this other window, this other person looking out at their own unknown country, you wonder if they might think of you, standing behind them, Watching them as they watch for something. Night piled on night, and like an arcane rhythm, some tarot card whose meaning eludes, like the thirteenth tarot card of the Major Arcana The Moon/ That phrase echoes, and you would go to close that window, but the words repeat and plays itself. A ghost of ghosts, something like sleep or love or a haunting,
Open window, darkened sky, and you can't remember where you heard it before, if anywhere, and that this whole thing isn't just some half remembered dream you might forget about by morning.