To all those out in the cold: A poem 

The icy wind plays havoc with my walk 

As dusk comes stalking at the clock 

The hairs on my skin stand like bristles of a brush 

in the shine of the early moon that seems in a rush 

The bowing flowers fight, in vain, the dying light 

A steeple silently silhouetting the sky comes in sight 

The vacant park has none but a lone man 

Walking his dog studiously with a cigarette in hand 

I will find my way back home for a cup of tea 

And watch the shades of night fall on the street 

The lamplight mocks me with shadows of four 

I let my imagination draw my own score 

Step into the shower as I heave a sigh 

The heating is not working, will I die? 

I pull over the blankets and breathe a prayer 

For all those homeless people the cold that dare