Between
my finger and my thumb
The
squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under
my window, a clean rasping sound
When
the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My
father, digging. I look down
Till
his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends
low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping
in rhythm through potato drills
Where
he was digging.
The
coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against
the inside knee was levered firmly.
He
rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To
scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving
their cool hardness in our hands.
By
God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just
like his old man.
My
grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than
any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once
I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked
sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To
drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking
and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over
his shoulder, going down and down
For
the good turf. Digging.
The
cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of
soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through
living roots awaken in my head.
But
I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between
my finger and my thumb
The
squat pen rests.
I’ll
dig with it.
