Thief

In the hush of midnight lanes, he slips,
A shadow draped in woolen cuff,
Silent as the fog that drifts
Over cobblestones worn rough.

His eyes, a gleam of quiet guile,
Scan the shutters, the dimmed shop front,
Where trinkets lie in modest pile,
Waiting for the thief’s blunt hunt.

He lifts the latch with practiced ease,
A breath held tight, a heartbeat slow,
The night conspires with whispered breeze,
Guiding his steps where valuables glow.

Yet conscience, like a constable’s stare,
Whispers through the rustling leaves,
Reminding him that fortune’s share
Is earned not taken, nor believed.

So he pauses, hand poised above the till,
Listens to the town’s soft sigh,
And chooses, instead, a gentler thrill—
To leave the night’s dark treasure lie.

For even thieves, in British streets,
May find a honour in retreat,
And walk away with lighter feet,
When kindness steals the dishonest cheat.