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 !’
  he says staccato without raising his voice;
‘Adios caballero’ legato but
  in the same tone.
  Camelmen high on muzzled mounts
boots rattling against the panels
  of an empty
  packsaddle do not answer strangers.
Each with his train of seven or eight tied
  head to tail they
  pass silent but for the heavy bells
and plip of slobber dripping from
  muzzle to dust;
  save that on sand their soles squeak slightly.
Milkmaids, friendly girls between
  fourteen and twenty
  or younger, bolt upright on small
trotting donkeys that bray (they arch their
  tails a few inches
  from the root, stretch neck and jaw forward
to make the windpipe a trumpet)
  chatter. Jolted
  cans clatter. The girls’ smiles repeat
the black silk curve of the wimple
  under the chin.
  Their hats are absurd doll’s hats
or flat-crowned to take a load.
  All have fine eyes.
  You can guess their balanced nakedness
under the cotton gown and thin shift.
  They sing and laugh.
  They say ‘Adios!’ shyly but look back
more than once, knowing our thoughts
  and sharing our
  desires and lack of faith in desire.