Richard Eyre Recites Douglas Dunn

A constant artist, dedicated to
Curves, shapes, the pleasant shades, the feel of colour,
She did not care what shapes, what red, what blue,
Scorning the dull to ridicule the duller
With a disinterested, loyal eye.
So Sandra brought her this and taped it up –
Three seagulls from a white and indoor sky –
A gift of old artistic comradeship.
‘Blow on them, Love.’ Those silent birds winged round
On thermals of my breath. On her last night,
Trying to stay awake, I saw love crowned
In tears and wooden birds and candlelight.
She did not wake again. To prove our love
Each gull, each gull, each gull, turned into dove.

Sandra's Mobile, by Douglas Dunn.

My, oh my, how painful indeed.  I imagine Sandra, having lived a rich, varied life, now dying in the sterile confines of a hospital room.  The speaker sits vigil, exhausted from sitting vigil, meditating on one of her paintings, somehow seeing the metaphors of her art become real.  Unrelievedly real.