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The Orotava Road

Four white heifers with sprawling hooves
trundle the waggon.
Its ill-roped crates heavy with fruit sway.
The chisel point of the goad, blue and white,
glitters ahead,
a flame to follow lance-high in a man’s hand
who does not shave. His linen trousers
like him want washing.
You can see his baked skin through his shirt.
He has no shoes and his hat has a hole in it.
‘Hu ! vaca ! Hu ! vaca !’
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