who had driven out the cold

With a sense of grief a son fondly recalls how he never appreciated his father's love when he was a boy
.
.
Sundays too my father got up early
nd put his clothes on in d blue-black cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
.
.
I’d wake nd hear the cold splintering, breaking
When the rooms were warm, he’d call
nd slowly I would rise nd dress
fearing the chronic angers of that house
.
.
Speaking indifferently to him
who had driven out the cold
nd polished my good shoes as well
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices