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digging
seamus heaney
between my finger and my thumb
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.
against the inside knee was levered firmly.
he rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
to 5 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 could cut more turf in a day
than any other man on toner's 6.
once i carried him milk in a bottle
to drink it, then fell to right away
nicking and slicing 9, heaving sods
over his shoulder, digging down and down
for the good turf. digging.
the cold smell of potato mold, the 10 and slap
of soggy peat, the 11 cuts of an edge
through living roots 12 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.
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