The innocence of the pram,
Softly stuffed and padded,
Draped with toys and teddies.
Innocent yet of the cheesy vomit,
Ice cream with melted chocolate,
The greasy ground-in biscuit.
Its proudly plumped patchwork pillow
Not yet compressed or worn and hard
But gently supporting the rocking child.
The innocence of the baby,
All milky pale like honey
Peachy skin so soft and downy.
Innocent yet of the screaming tantrums,
Reluctant yielding to parents’ censure
And later on to peer group pressure.
Its God-given face without trace of frown
Not yet moulded by wish and want
Nor yet sullied by can’t and won’t.
The innocence of the mother
Radiant, preoccupied, elated
Filled up with her love, sated.
Innocent yet of the parental worry
The clammy fear of loss
The pain of letting loose.
Her focused eyes on the sleeping child
Looking neither to left nor right
Protecting the trinity from badness and blight.