Waiting

Friday leaps through the window curtains swing to the swish of the sea. Spirit sparkling, dizzy for your return I wait for your call, scanning the dawn. Church bells chime down the hillside, the village stirs under a honeysuckle sky. A lemon field sleeps beneath the mountains, plum purple with wild scented heather. Life peeps from geranium doorways as the blush of our weekend beckons. Love burns red as a mid-summer rose until Sunday sobs through the window. And we yearn for Friday to leap again.