Poetry Sunday: Mother, Summer, I
Recently, we have been in a cycle of late afternoon thunderstorms, following very hot and humid summer days. Sometimes the thunder brings much appreciated rain with it; sometimes not.
Like the poet Philip Larkin, I, too, am summer-born, and although summer is not my favorite season, I find that the older I get, the less I mind its inconveniences. And, unlike the poet's mother, I do love a good summer storm that clears and freshens the air and reminds us that a break in the heat is coming.
Winter may not be coming to Southeast Texas, but more pleasant weather is, if we can just hold out until October!
Mother, Summer, I
Mother, Summer, I
by Philip Larkin
My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,
And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.
My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,
And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.
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