Out of summer linen

the pale scent of roses

rises

like your red hair

rising from the azure sea

Your skin the color of linen

waiting on the old bed

waiting for the afternoon

the siesta

the swoon

While the scent of roses

rises

from your linen flesh

Pink succulent

slightly warm

A cool breeze touches

the gauze curtains

Licks the salt on

your skin

Snatches your scent

carrying it on a wanton wind

back out to sea