Mother, Summer, I

Philip Larkin

My mother, who hates thunderstorms,
holds up each summer day & 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.