Seamus Heaney(b. 1939)
Digging
B e t w e e n m y f i n g e r a n d m y t h u m b
T h e s q u a t p e n r e s t s ; s n u g a s a g u n .
U n d e r m y w i n d o w , a c l e a n r a s p i n g s o u n d
W h e n 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
S t o o p i n g i n r h y t h m t h r o u g h p o t a t o d r i l l s 1
W h e r e h e w a s d i g g i n g .
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
L o v i n g t h e i r c o o l h a r d n e s s i n o u r h a n d s .
By god, the old man could handle a spade.
J u s t l i k e h i s o l d m a n .
M y g r a n d f a t h e r c u t m o r e t u r f 2 i n a d a y
T h a n a n y o t h e r m a n o n T o n e r ' s b o g .
O n c e I c a r r i e d h i m m i l k i n a b o t t l e
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 m e n like them.
B e t w e e n m y f i n g e r a n d m y t h u m b
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.