In Funky Town – where small children govern
among the brightly coloured soft play kit
that is piled high in this former warehouse
and their cheerful, rumbustious music plays,
where they act with artistry and disdain,
form intense friendships that last a morning
and are comforted with varied ice creams,
and where assorted multi-cultural,
inter-generational adults,
snack on americanos with cold milk,
builders’ tea, apple crisps and burgers
with brioche buns and caramelised onions,
and by each table there are children’s shoes
and the occasional grown-up’s – a tv,
above the café counter, shows wide screen,
muted, sub-titled 24/7 news.

Unremarked by the innocents but noted
by their guardians then relegated
to somewhere darker, Auschwitz appears
with its many neat hectares of industry,
its pyramids – shut spectacles, emptied
suitcases, shoes.