Heat Knock

The first cold snap, it groans to life.

A shudder, then a metal sigh.

Dust motes rise, from painted strife,

across the glass, against the sky.

Its belly hot, its skin all rust.

A tired beast, it clanks and ticks.

It pushes out what heat it must,

through brittle, ancient, crooked bricks.

A warmth that smells of something burnt,

of settled grime, of forgotten days.

A lesson slowly, surely learnt:

survival found in simple ways.

It’s here again. It works. For now.