Sunday morning, she strolls by the river's edge,
wondering, remembering the days before,
with this hardman, drinker by her side,
as the mist rolls along,
the tongue of the Clyde,
she can still smell the beer on his breath,
the whisky in his kiss.
And how many times can she forgive,
this city made of stone,
but stone (only she knows)
made of the softest sand,
and how many times can she forgive,
the violence of his hand.
Yet as she looks around,
at the buildings abashed,
in the early morning light,
glinting sun on glass and steel,
beautiful and still,
how could she leave,
her man.
So once again in this city
of unexpected embrace,
she turns around,
and walks back
across the bridge.
