The Presence of a Priest
By Christine Fogerty


The mellow days he fashioned will never be erased,
Nor-has his quiet goodness from our souls escaped.

But the gentle days of past will not be relived
the moments found in time: to grasp, to hold, then give.

The memory betrays itself for it can scarcely tell,
a story of the soul who know it all too well.

For the soul absorbed it long ago, as thread, spinning
on a wheel. With time and age a fabric forged
And silence formed a seal.

So locked with-in, where none may go, dwell the gentle
days now past. Tho time will fade, the memory fail
The soul alone; complete—will last.