The story of the bull, corralled and domesticated, left to rot in pasture and becoming increasingly bored and frustrated, who begins to awaken to his power, and what he might destroy by wielding it, a path that will take him inexorably to a showdown against his persecutors: man, in the violence of the corrida.



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He is looking at the muscle that fills my shoulders and rump, the width of bone where hoof meets leg, the large head as hard as stone with only the flesh-like wetness of eye and nostril as a weakness, a sudden reminder that I am not really made of rock, but one that is quickly forgotten by the tapering cruelty of the horns, long and twisted, apex of the beast.


Lowering my horns I mix and swirl the air before them, watching as the figure becomes more birdlike in the raising of its spindle wings towards me: two white and feathered extensions of its arms drawn up as I close in, as if the beginning of flight – but the man does not take off or leap, he waits until I am nearly on him before stepping to the side, a movement that without the cape to hide it registers clearly even as I swipe upward with a horn to see the skeleton wings descend, a thin but punching impact at my shoulder, a different feel of metal bouncing from the bone there as my head comes up and the horn sweeps across the man’s chest.  But it does not touch and I slash through nothing but air, able to see the man bend his spine outward to evade me, his arms stretched out and one of the white lengths spinning away as if snapped off.


'Like nothing you have ever read, except perhaps William Blake's daunting vision as articulated in "The Tyger" . . . There is a wonderful, soaring artistry at work . . . Taurus is a subtle morality play; beautiful, relentless and unforgettable'

Eileen Battersby, Irish Times

' soon as I reached the last page I felt an overwhelming compulsion to go back to the beginning and read it all over again. It's beautiful yet cruel, ancient yet new, and austere yet utterly stifling. For each thing that I want to say about this book, I also want to say its opposite.'

Jill Murphy,



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'...More dreams to haunt me in this humid box of the barn?  It is there and not there, memory and feeling weaving up into my mind before disappearing to echo in my flesh - an elusiveness to which I have become attached like a nail in wood - wanting desperately to feel again as I did then even if it is a deception, and only in the misted form of memory...'


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