This Room feels like Footsteps

2:00am, and there are miles and miles of dark roads between here and London; silent fields and locked meadow, the pylon-song in some rain I cannot hear here.
From old windows I used to watch lights flicker in the trees, a window of a house I never remembered to look for in day. Winding branches, blue sky of early mornings, and getting ready to travel home.
My voice in the night, a name tumbling out of the open window, rolling like dice in the slope of the streets for some river-deep season. I think of all those places I know in day, but would not dream of knowing at night. Not this late. Three Cornered Copse, Freezewood Covert, Perry Hill Woods.
Messages and signals.
This room feels like footsteps.