In westward folds where London sighs,
Beneath the ever-changing skies,
Lies Ealing, with her leafy grace,
A village heart, a city’s pace.
The whisper of the Underground,
The rustle where the trees are crowned,
With Georgian homes and twilight streets,
Where old and modern gently meet.
The parks stretch wide – a green delight,
Walpole’s pond reflects the light,
Families stroll through days serene,
While foxes prowl through midnight’s green.
Once famed for film, its silver age,
Still lingers on each hidden stage;
Studios that sparked a nation’s cheer,
Their legacy remains sincere.
Ealing Broadway’s busy hum,
The rhythm of the buses run,
With coffee shops and bookish nooks,
And corners made for dreaming looks.
Southall’s spice and Acton’s soul,
Each borough part, a vital whole—
A tapestry of every face,
In Ealing’s charm, there’s room and place.
So raise a toast where plane trees lean,
To Ealing – calm, yet so unseen.
A quiet gem where stories grow,
And London breathes a softer glow.