Ridgewalk

I have walked the high places, seen

the haze in the glaciated

trough beneath my feet;

I have heard the raven’s croak

among tall crags, felt the winds

keen around my head. I have

trusted my life to a friend, sensed the

taut rope’s reassurance,

known the joy of balance

on the white path’s ribbon.

I have sensed the unseen God in

the fierce, dangerous joy, the

tension and the trust, and always,

always the wind of his breath

piling the tumultuous clouds,

sweeping the pale sky clear.

©C.M.M. 12/01

Arles: Feria du Riz

Photo ©Fraser Shiells, by permission

Sitting at lunch beneath the shade

we heard the gunfire - loud, sharp - 

and then the growing noise of cheers

above the music of the band

and rushed to line the barricade

between us and the road.

And what came next was troubling to

the me that thinks I’m civilised

as horses clattered in the dust

and lances waved and suddenly

I saw the bulls - small, dusty, black

and gone: a swiftness barely seen

as bodies swirled and young boys clawed

and darted in among the hooves

and grabbed and cheered and strutted there.

And my blood raced in sympathy

as small dogs yapped beside my legs

and all my civilised disdain

was pulverised and lay in dust.

C.M. 09/12

This was a fascinating, thrilling and ultimately disturbing experience - the more so because I had not anticipated the event. I'm grateful to my friend Fraser Shiells for his photo - the speed of everything made it hard to capture, and this moment, when one of the bulls escaped the corralling horses and headed back down the road on its own, was especially dramatic.