The Tourmalet

Seen through a rainy lens:
Two riders emerging from
the cloud clinging to the
Tourmalet—four K to go.
Quick nods to read faces
showing nothing.
The rest of the peloton
long fallen away,
deeper in the clouds.
Three K left—
A man holds a Basque flag
like a matador’s cape—
ignored by the riders, who are
both bull and torero.
Rain blurs the camera:
an impressionist’s vision
as these men climb,
and dig into themselves.
One K—the red flag
overhead like a muleta.
Two wraiths, shadows in fog,
skeletons dancing to macabre music
only they hear, reach for the line—
the man in white, the novillero,
takes it by half a wheel.
A fist in the air, pats on the back,
the riders suddenly slack.
The man in yellow concedes,
smiles, grabs the winner’s face
like a grandmother, winks
like a conspirator—they embrace,
ready to fight another day.