Babies in Buggies
All down my road there are babies in buggies
six on the corner their mothers are chatting
they fill up the pavement, the babies are sleeping
or grizzling or chucking their toys in the road
All down Northcross Road there are babies in buggies
parked outside the caff where their fathers are sitting
or they're stood in the queue for the organic grocer's
and keeping in touch with their feminine side
In the Lane are two grannies, with babies in buggies
anxious to cross when the green man lights up
while in Budgens two granddads with babies in buggies
are buying them comics and sweets and toy cars
All round there are people with babies in buggies
I'm not sure if they're mummies or grannies or daddies
or granddads, or sisters or brothers or snatchers
or someone's long-suffering and ill-paid au pair
I love all these babies in buggies a-trundling
the pavements of Dulwich, and I can't help thinking
of all of the couplings not condommed or cautious
both loving and loveless, both randy and raucous,
both long- planned and random these comings-together
black on black, white on white, black on white and all shades
that led to these blond, auburn, brown, black and straight-haired
and curly and almost bald babies in buggies
and I think of their future, these babies in buggies
enough food, enough sleep, enough space, enough play
enough dreams, enough peace, enough love, enough care
enough freedom and fun to be happy and kind
all fleetfoot and friendly and literate and lively
not too fat not too thin, not too dumb not too wise
not too shy not too wild not too tall not too short
and what if they are: they'll have friends and relations
who'll love them regardless for just being themselves,
these babies in buggies, who'll grow old, very old
feeling fitter than fiddles, and brighter than buttons
when they're just ninety-five or a hundred-and-two
with no need for false gods or mad kings or fat profits
or dictators and bloodfeuds and wars of revenge
with fresh dreams and fresh air not polluted or poisoned
there'll be wild flowers and hedges and songbirds and trees
The streets are alive with these babies in buggies
saying, 'bye-bye', and waving and wiggling their toes
I'm just off to fetch today's paper, myself
There'll be good news, and I am Marie of Rumania
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