Three short lines, and the whole poem hangs on one odd, vivid word: "spillage." Something has overflowed, and the poem tells us what and where. Talk is pouring out from a house, running over its walls and into the land at night.
The speaker seems to be standing outside, a little apart, listening. We never hear what is being said, only that there is a lot of it, more than the rooms can hold. That choice makes the voices feel like a warm, restless sound rather than a message. The word "spillage" is also slightly messy, as if the conversation has leaked out by accident.
The mood is quiet and intimate, with a hint of distance. Against the dark, open land, the human noise looks small but alive. The poem leaves it unclear whether the speaker feels comforted by that sound or just aware of being outside it, and that open question is part of its pull.