Sunlight lets itself in again
Like a looter returning stealthily,
Plundering scenes of his origin
With neither shame nor learning.

He’s stolen colour from books
And he’s kept off the hook
The collusion of night;
The detectives don’t know

Which way they should look.
Do not misinterpret
The softness of his touch
On shelves and tills and locks,

For his expertise has not deserted
His faculties for profit and loss,
No matter how much the thrill
Of lovers restored and love long lost,

For what does he give in return
Once the daily raid is over,
But the same old worn excuses
And the knowledge of dust, and rot.