pavarotti at the grosvenor house hotel

He ate like one whose happiness was food.
The juice of Thracian pomegranates; bread,
proved overnight and set to bake at dawn;
cheese, apples, a dish of raisins, eggs –
his eyes shone with delight. He was the feast
in every particle, as on stage that night
he would be the music, the music utterly,
and later, she imagined, he would be love.

It was the god in him, to be what he did –
it was his genius. At Wembley, a whole stadium
would be enchanted by his song. She watched him eat
and knew that he was the fire at the heart
of life. He cut the comb, spread it, oozing honey,
on warm bread and asked her name.

Eurydice, she said.

Sue Boyle