Lynn Carneson McGregor

Angels

It’s 11.00am in Hertfordshire, riding on the back of Lionel’s huge motorbike, clear sky, sunny day, joy of smell of earth and masses of bluebells under the trees. Holding onto Lionel, wind in my hair. Happy day ahead of us.

Then the bike suddenly swerves out of control and I fly off the back.

Blue, blue of bluebell woods, rushing past me. Bile at the back of my throat. Too fast to control. Flying high into the air. This is death. Then flash of road. Impact. Taste of lightning. No. Lightning has tasted me, unconscious and witnessed by the tall dark green-scented firs, but I can’t smell them. I am somewhere else.

Time to die, but no time to say goodbye.

Body I cannot feel smashed on grey black tarmac.

I am at the merge.

Bright Light.

No feeling, just bright light

Light. Shaft of brilliant light.

No more body. This is dying – floating with the light

Blackness. Then rainbow colours flashing with unbearable intensity.

I see from above, my body, broken, burnt and crumpled.

I am unconscious for forever  or a second, lying hard hit on that harsh road.

My being, reshaped.

Insistent, strong, the scent of bluebells wakes me up. I don’t want to return. I want to travel where the lightning goes when it leaves earth.

Black again. Then a blackbird tells me it is time to come back. Don’t bring me back yet. I need more time to feel and taste that brightness of light.

Then nothing.

I wake up, cushioned on a pool of my own blood. Three angelic beings are above me, tall as the firs, murmuring. Their love and concern wraps around my heart, my being and my body.

The three angels lift me into the ambulance and I lose consciousness again.

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