Spring’s son is subtle: likes to think
Reveals himself and then gone with a wink
Coy, then torrential but pretty in pink
Though I’ve never found sneezing much of a kink
Summer’s son is too intense
Stands you starkers in his refulgence
Blinds and burns, there’s no defence
He envelops you: heavy, hot and dense
Autumn’s son lives like a monk
Clouds enshroud the dour hunk
Get close and cosy, bear the funk,
And you get a huggy hygge hunk
Winter's son is highly strung
Sharp of eye and tart of tongue
Biting cold but brisk and young
All in all… could be fun.