(Thoughts upon reading Mother, Summer, I by Phillip Larkin)
When young, she cringed at lightening
And thunder claps that rocked the sky.
While I, delighting in them so,
Longed for her to grow
To love them as much as I.
Come with me, I would say,
To the window-lined sunroom,
Where we will watch Nature play,
And together see the flash and boom
Of God’s own fireworks display.
Lightening in jagged sheets
Illuminated the backyard trees.
Their branches swayed in wind and rain.
And I taught her to count the beats
Before the thunder crashes came.
So I would hug her tightly and say,
Oh, isn’t this such fun!
And looking up and nodding all the while,
She would give me her sweet smile.
So I thought my mission won.
Now she is grown and I am old,
And her story can be told.
I thought myself constructive.
She says, Not so. Rather, destructive.
Storms, to this day it seems, she abhors.
But not me, my love, I say with rue,
Not me you loathe, I pray.
Oh no! she hurries to attest,
One thing I always knew:
For me you ever tried to do your best.