Heat-Thief Poem by C Richard Miles

An ice-clear sky, pale blue
But fading round the margin
Starkly signifies its cold intent
To steal the little warmth
That's left in this short, sun-scarce day.

A weak-yellow sickly sun,
Too cowardly to resist fierce frost
Hangs on a last few moments
As if wondering if it
Should wait a while to watch the action.

But yet it knows that it
Is not a match for ice-sharp knives
That long to slice through
Overcoat and well-wrapped scarf
And cut cardigans to ribbons.

The wind, too, has absconded,
Reluctantly admitting that it
Does not have the strength
To hold back grasping temperatures
That pull the mercury earthwards.

Trees droop their last limp leaves
And bare branches tremble in
Anticipation of the war ahead
Where bole and sap will
Endure assaults of steel-cold night.

Yet on the following morning
Glittering silver gifts upon the grass
And sparkling diamond rime
Might just remind us
It was worth the price.

For perhaps the heat-thief
Is like some Robin Hood,
Redistributing what he takes
To redress the poverty
Of rain-drenched trench-grey winter.