在我手指和大拇指中間
一支粗壯的筆躺着，舒適自在像一支槍。
我的窗下，一個清晰而粗厲的響聲
鐵鏟切進了礫石纍纍的土地：
我爹在挖土。我嚮下望
看到花坪間他正使勁的臀部
彎下去，伸上來，二十年來
穿過白薯壟有節奏地俯仰着，
他在挖土。
粗劣的靴子踩在鐵鏟上，長柄
貼着膝頭的內側有力地撬動，
他把表面一層厚土連根掀起，
把鐵鏟發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。
我爺爺的土納的泥沼地
一天挖的泥炭比誰個都多。
有一次我給他送去一瓶牛奶，
用紙團鬆鬆地塞住瓶口。他直起腰喝了，馬上又幹
開了，
利索地把泥炭截短，切開，把土．
撩過肩，為找好泥炭，
一直嚮下，嚮下挖掘。
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幹。
在我手指和大拇指中間
那支粗壯的筆躺着。
我要用它去挖掘。
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; 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.