She translated the Spanish suburbia:
rooftops, balconies and sunbeds
sleeping under an October sun.
She told me of Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas
where bulls are trapped and slaughtered
among the veins and channels of Spain’s heart.
I would tell her of Salisbury’s spire and how
“we can make it to the top any day.
We can last longer than those stones on the Plains.”
A Neolithic burial ground
where around it tourists watch
as the Territorial fight in the distance.
Yet here, only rain filtered
through streetlights on Leicester streets
and Volvos speeding in the torrent can be seen.
Like an encierro, they charge
at the pulsing of red traffic lights
before an estocada is granted to the sound of applause.
This is the poem I wrote previously. It felt fitting to put it in after the blog post about Stonehenge. I hope you enjoy it! :)
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