They come each morning to the gate,
are milked and wander off to feed;
six cows, a calf and in the lead
a brindled bull, old, fat sedate.
And every evening they are back,
loafing along the quarter-mile
of dusty lane in single file,
the old bull trailing up the track.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem