And there, like jam in a doughnut,
centred amongst the gingerbread houses
garages and shops
up sunlit steps, where the door swings open
lures you in.
There amongst the books the babies sing
their mothers’ voices imitating
birds and lambs, moo cows and trains
their smiles like light bulbs
circumnavigating sacred circles
The books are silent, hidden tales
and histories hold their breath
between the shelves; remembering
the days before language came
and music rippled deep within our skin.
These babies now, their journeys
only just beginning, hold their mothers’ faces
close and dance their infant bodies
keeping step with love and life in rhythm.