Carole Bromley
The Bull
It was her mother who first took her.
She peeped at his sad eyes,
the ring through his nose.
How that must have hurt.
She imagined his bellow,
the lunging back,
hooves clattering on cobbles.
In his massive neck
a nerve twitched.
After that she took him things,
stones from the beach,
her best marble
but he only tossed his head
too proud to nudge it
till she'd gone.
She longed to squeeze through
and lie down in that straw
in her red skirt.
Page(s) 24
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