For you again, this morning.

In the ghosts of
Sunday morning,
she will meet you
at the river
and you`ll watch
the mists dissolving
in honey coloured sunshine

and you have so much
to tell her,
but the silence
gathers round you
while only seagulls answer
the sound of her heartbeat
in your mind.

Though you know
she`ll always be here,
St Therese of the dockyards,
waiting for your coming
among the half truths
and the litter,
the tug boats
and the driftwood,

still you never touch her.
You just listen
with your eyes,
till you watch her fade
so slowly
into another penance
of your mind.