Young mothers push ergonomic prams in the morning light,
Softly, stubbornly tending their precious bundles despite
The parlous signs that the world really must,
After all, regrettably, fall apart.
Each one beams her anxious, necessary love,
And turns a blind eye to the chaos beyond;
Each flickers poignantly in the eye of the storm —
Each a dogged, tireless beacon,
Casually wearing her silent controversion
Like a glorious crowning radiance.