It’s the West Wind that wakes me, tapping at the window in the dark of night and calling me by name. I ease carefully from bed, leaving Rosie sound asleep, and steal outside to meet him.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see him: a salt-scented messenger from a far green country under stars I do not know.
I beg him to stay and tell me his news (have you seen him? is he well?) but he will not tarry. He leaves only these words to taunt and console me: your time will come, Sam.