Merging out from leafy tunnel-dark
to low-slung sun and monster shadowlands
in silhouette a stalwart bullock stands.
His brazen bulk on pale-grey road as stark
and black as jet on silver sands. He blocks
me, obstinate. I watch his male display;
a gauntlet thrown, a challenge to a fray,
he snorts his sweet hot silage fog, and mocks.
Desire to stroke his tousled forelock aches
in me. I reach. I touch. Meet mirror eyes
and see myself so small in giant skies.
Those waxy curls, a texture that awakes
a memory. My fingers. Your black hair.
So long ago, yet still, I linger there.