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.
Art by Irit Bourla
Recommended listening: Dust - Siren And The Sea
Links of the Day: World War II Love Letters Best Books Gates' Notes: Bill Gates' blog Yes, There Have Been Aliens
10 Indian artists who are using GIFs to create fascinating art (My second article for Scroll :) )