Corrida De Toros


in the arena the bugle sounds
colours jostle under the thickening yolk of the sun
you paw up the dust   stretch   muzzle trembling
the toreros circle assessing your   weight   height
the sinuous  nature of your bulk in flight

in golden suits they pose
a flash of woven damask reflects that dieing  sun
and the picador’s sword stabs into your shoulder
amber eyes rolling in the growing cool of the day

blood darkens and is washed away
crowds turn for home the arena falls silent
with dusk the clock strikes wild
and on the street there is laughter
troubled by the circling of  evening flies
a white horse tosses its main
echoes of your last panting breath
the final toll for the festival of death