Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
And slowly I would rise and dress,
Fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
The phrase ‘hear the cold’ is  synaesthetic , a mix of senses, a reflection perhaps of the harshness of the life of the father who received few thanks, implying he felt the neglect in every aspect of his being, through every sense. Note the hard, percussive consonants in ‘cold’, ‘splintering’ and ‘breaking’.  The warm rooms provide marked contrast.
Those Winter Sundays