Amy Winehouse came to Dingle.
You came to Dingle, a young Medea,
Worshipped by music addicts in the know.
“Listen”, they said “to a new dark Diva”.
You howled of black loathing relieved by “blow”,
Of savage revenge for a treacherous sin,
Betrayal of your boyfriend, with his old beau?
Piled up hair, Cleopatra eyed, teenage grin,
Shoulder bare in black top and clingy pants,
Sinuous snakes etched into your alabaster skin.
No blameless child to sate your vengeance,
Only you who sang of death over and over
And your chant -wish to back into blackness.
That night, you blessed St John’s theatre.
The crowd was soothed. In from winter rain,
Caressed by chords on rhythm and bass guitar.
You were in a drumbeat happy, untouched by blame,
The therapy of your song unfolding to cure all hearts,
Your angelic arms embracing your throat like a flame.
Your Heart break was snagged in a Cockney twang,
Your nose- studs flared out in snarled defiance
Against love’s sorrow, but you curtsied back its wrongs.
In Dingle there was to be no sacrifice of your innocence.
Years later when I saw you on Glastonbury’s stage,
The top billing amongst all those in rock heaven,
I knew then you had given in to your rage,
A song-bird, trapped to toll forever of love’s loss,
Which no hope or consolation could assuage.
No return to Dingle now, no song of pathos,
Only on “YouTube’s” immortal heavenly hall,
Do you still console the forlorn, the lost.