Sunday, May 11, 2008


As we descend the well worn path towards the gate, he paces casually down the other side to meet us. He is seriously big. There can be no mistakes with this one. No thoughts of flamboyant veronicas with an old anorak; and side-stepping him would be like trying to cross the road outside my house on a sunny bank holiday weekend. We close in, and without so much as an excuse me for a minute – he engages us with a full profile pee.
Frustrated and bored,
but friendly enough – the bull
in our next field
Once he has quite finished, two of us lean over to scratch the enormous four hands-width head. I look at the steepish hill beyond, and then at his massive bulk and think Years ago, with that escape route over wired fence to the left and the earthquake warning of your hooves behind me, I might just have taken you on to the top up there; might have still, but that I’m just a knackered old git, while you, you great hunk of meat and no potatoes, you’re not interested anyway. And so what, old friend – only Time wins at the last.

Meanwhile, our leader of men is telling us that If there’s no warning sign, he’s not dangerous; and if he is dangerous, he shouldn’t be in the field anyway. Nice theory, I think; and we all follow him over the gate and then into the nearest adjacent field – not too casually.

by Bamboo Shoot
Salisbury, Wiltshire, England
first published in Blithe Spirit 17:4, 2007

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