She translated the Spanish suburbia:
rooftops, balconies and sunbeds
sleeping under an October sun.

She told me of Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas
where bulls are trapped and slaughtered
among the veins and channels of Spain’s heart.

I would tell her of Salisbury’s spire and how
“we can make it to the top any day.
We can last longer than those stones on the Plains.”

A Neolithic burial ground
where around it tourists watch
as the Territorial fight in the distance.

Yet here, only rain filtered
through streetlights on Leicester streets
and Volvos speeding in the torrent can be seen.

Like an encierro, they charge
at the pulsing of red traffic lights
before an estocada is granted to the sound of applause.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to criticise any aspect you want - they will be returned. Keep in mind, this is a poem.
You lost me around the third and fourth stanza. I don't understand what this territorial fight with a capital T has to do with anything and why it's at stonehenge. I guess you're relating it somehow back to bullfighting? Maybe I just don't understand what you're trying to say with this because there doesn't appear to be a cohesive idea, at least not to the outside reader. Is somehow the bullfight related to love? Because there appears to be love involved in the "we can last longer than those stones..", but what does that have to do with the Volvos? What are you trying to say about them? From the perspective of an outside reader, there appears to be a lot going over my head. I see a connection here that ties everything together, but it's vague. Maybe you haven't developed it well enough. Maybe it's your fault, maybe it's my fault. Maybe it's both or neither. I don't know. But you can take my complete and utter confusion and use it however you would like, whether you take it and decide to try and be less vague or whether you aren't being vague and I am a twit and you can have an opportunity to laugh at me. Either way, positive things have come from this encounter between myself and your poem, so rejoice.

Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black