Mourning Colours

Widow’s Walk

Why does she comb the horizon so?

Back and forth atop the balcony, a shade of human, fading into a night that spreads from beneath olive and citrus trees;

eternally vigilant, gazing over a sea named after her love.

Spring — ever promising but never delivering — decays through summer to an autumn winter mourns.

Yet still, she paces.

Because, bereft from losing her love she prays for a white sail.
And hope, like love, springs eternal.