Queen Of The Night

 May blossom .....Hawthorn.......  or Blackthorn?

Late evening, we leave behind us the streets of South London and drive west into the sun. I put on  a CD of  The Magic Flute. Later, on our left, we pass Stonehenge, icon of Salisbury Plain. I hear my husband's tears in his voice - he's remembering this journey from other times, up and down the A30 to his head office in Salisbury - for meetings with the other directors, with clients, wearing his suit, his brief case in the back seat full of documents - full of his identity, when he knew what kind of man he was in the world....... taking it all for granted - even the luxury of complaining.....imagining he could change his future any time.

I feel awash with his grief.....the car fills up with Mozart and memories and we drive on and on past  fields draped in mustard yellow duvets of flowering rape....... and lines of hawthorne trees fluffy with  blossom..... glowing snow white in the dusk......reminding me of the relentless march of another spring. 

And the voice of the Queen of the Night hitting those top notes....high enough to shatter glass .... sharp as the knife cutting up my marriage.....