Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, 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.

挖掘

在我手指和大拇指中間

一支粗壯的筆躺著，舒適自在像一支槍。

我的窗下，一個清晰而粗厲的響聲

鐵鏟切進了礫石累累的土地：

我爹在挖土。我向下望

看到花坪間他正使勁的臀部

彎下去，伸上來，二十年來

穿過白薯壟有節(jié)奏地俯仰著，

他在挖土。

粗劣的靴子踩在鐵鏟上，長柄

貼著膝頭的內(nèi)側(cè)有力地撬動，

他把表面一層厚土連根掀起，

把鐵鏟發(fā)亮的一邊深深埋下去，

使新薯四散，我們撿在手中，

愛它們又涼又硬的味兒。

說真的，這老頭子使鐵鏟的巧勁

就像他那老頭子一樣。

我爺爺?shù)耐良{的泥沼地

一天挖的泥炭比誰個都多。

有一次我給他送去一瓶牛奶，

用紙團松松地塞住瓶口。他直起腰喝了，馬上又干開了，

利索地把泥炭截短，切開，把土．

撩過肩，為找好泥炭，

一直向下，向下挖掘。

白薯地的冷氣，潮濕泥炭地的

咯吱聲、咕咕聲，鐵鏟切進活薯根的短促聲響

在我頭腦中回蕩。

但我可沒有鐵鏟像他們那樣去干。

在我手指和大拇指中間

那支粗壯的筆躺著。

我要用它去挖掘。