Friday, February 11, 2011

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.

-- Seamus Heaney (excerpt from Digging)


New World said...

Another sweet post Allison!
I love the colors of that photo..
Have a wonderful friday :)


Nancy@A Rural Journal said...

I can smell the grass -- really. I love that smell, although sometimes it causes me to sneeze.

Thank you for the "green" photo and words from Seamus. Great way to start a Friday.

texwisgirl said...

Ahh. You and your pen (or keyboard) still cut a nice row into our daily lives... Thanks for sharing this.

Out on the prairie said...

A few leeks left behind, spring is coming to you early.

Meg said...

Oooh that makes me want to play in the dirt! :)