In Ealing blackbirds sing all night.

 

I’m here to see the woman who cannot die

 

I pass Christ’s church, the door is wide.

There’s a sign – capitol letters in felt tip

“Open for prayer and contemplation”

I go in but I cannot settle.

I walk around

end up by the Lady Chapel.

 

Everyone’s head is bowed.

Is that what you’re supposed to do?

I leave without a revelation,

angry with angels.

 

She was a Wren in wartime

Now she’s placed in a chair all day

and in a bed at night.

The only thing she had the strength to say

“They should give me a pill shouldn’t they?

I don’t know why I’m still here.”

 

It hurts my vanity to see she needs her carer more than me.

“Where’s Anne?” she cries – we have the same name.

“I need Anne.” I can’t do the things that Anne does.

She only feels safe in Anne’s arms. I might drop her.

 

In Ealing the blackbirds sing all night

it is relentless, like the gold street light.

Cruel of the angels to let her live too long

to endure the nightmare of the blackbird’s song.