The Ring


In a doorway she waits
Never still, watching
Wary eyes, schooled by the careless fist
Grateful for the wraiths of London fog
Cold sanctuary on a November morn
~
She holds the bundle of new life
Close to milk dried breasts
Smiles through the tears
Croons to sleeping eyes
~
Lamplight soft through the railings
She hurries across the square
Lays the wicker basket close to the gate
And kneels in prayer
~
Two gifts, a ring and the promise of life
Nothing else to offer
She stumbles into the fog
Denying the agony of a backward look.
~
See now the little ring
Aged by centuries
Sniff your disapproval
through the luxury of judgement.


This poem was inspired by a visit to the museum on the site of the old Foundling Home in London for abandoned children set up as a charity in the 1700s. Where there is a long glass case containing the pitiful mementoes left by the mothers in the hope that they may one day return for their child, sadly very few did.