The Bull is out of the China Shop.
Careering into the rush hour,
an awesome display of animal power
astride his top-flight mountain bike.
Pamplona never saw the like.
“Get outta my way!”
scream Bull and machine,
as they head for the cycle path through the Green zone
where ant-like commuters stream
wearily home at the end of their day.
Horns forward, head down,
jaw set, arteries pound,
he kicks the dust up from the ground
and nervous feet step in soft flowerbeds,
while pigeons quietly tilt their heads and watch.
He swerves and dips his helmeted head
to glance at his specialist mountain bike clock.
Seeing red, he runs amok
and charges at his Personal Best,
bursting out of his cycling vest.
Looking up from her magazine,
galvanised by the terrible scene,
the pedestrian takes instinctive flight
then gazes, head buzzing,
her face turned white,
at churning haunches, clattering gears
ploughing through push-chairs and sundry old dears.
Seconds later he’s clean out of sight
save a flick of his tail and a small flashing red light.
“Coo!” said the pigeons.