In a Budapest pub against a wall,
Stands an ancient pram that sits quietly
Amongst the bawdy crowd,
Remembering walks in the park.
Its cast iron wheels and rusty springs
Support a wicker basket lined with
Broken cotton that once warmed
A baby long dead now.
In its place lie old bottles,
And a single, painted plate.
It looks up at the ghost of the woman
Who still patiently pushes her charge
Down tree lined paths in parks
Long since bombed beyond existence.
She sings to her baby
And it beams back,
Its awkward, human hand painted features
Irregular in a mechanised world.
The plate is still there
Whilst the baby’s long gone,
Having lived a process through
Two world wars.
Now through that plate,
The artist and the child join spirits
And smile happily up at the pretty young woman
Who knew nothing of what was to come.