HALCYON DAYS

T.S.Eliot referred to April as 'a cruel month'. 
For me, August is a disappointing one for the reason outlined in this poem.

AUGUST

August always disappoints:
the days are never hot enough,
night falls too soon, warmth dissipates
and somehow autumn never seems
too far away: it hovers like
a beggar in a ragged coat
with mean dog, winter, at his heels.
Of course poor August disappoints
for Augusts now can never bear
comparison with Augusts then,
when each year, in a Morris packed
with windbreak, tartan rug and toys,
beach towels, stumps and cricket bat,
my father, mother, siblings, dog,
escaped from dull suburbia
to holiday beside the sea.
Two weeks unbroken happiness
with donkey-rides and candy-floss,
sand-castles, penny-slot-machines,
and strangely tasty guesthouse food.
Two weeks of sun and sea and fun,
with father less preoccupied
and mother carefree as a girl.
It never rained, no cloud would dare
intrude upon those halcyon days.
We spent each year, June and July,
with chalk marks, ticking off the days
till August and our holiday.
Those childhood memories that cloud
the way I look on Augusts now
are unreliable at best,
at worst a foolish fantasy
but still I find it hard to praise
these lesser Augusts nowadays.