Late for the crèche, she’s pushing hard -
baby strapped into the buggy,
toddler whooping at the rear
riding shotgun for Wells Fargo.
This splash of brilliant Caribbean
forges through a dull grey morning,
chasing sunshine that falls just short
of burning through the North Sea mist -
red scarves swirling in the slipstream
rainbow-mittens dance on strings
flashing over granite cobbles.
At the corner, these energies collide
with old men babbling in black suits,
shocks of white hair tousled in the breeze.
Spilling out of Morning Mass,
they're making for the nearest ale-house
to continue their saintly celebrations
for all the world like pints of Guinness,
glasses poured and left to settle
on a long and well-worn bar.
Tiny fingers wave in passing -
writing a message of innocent joy
upon their frothy heads.