Digging by Seamus Heaney

Digging

BY SEAMUS HEANEY

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

We can help you With Your Research Paper

Your topic
Your E-MAIL

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.

Your topic
type of service
pages
Spend
5 Minutes
book
Your E-MAIL

Alex from AresearchguideHi there, would you like to get some papers? How about receiving a customized one?

Check it out

Sorry, but copying text is forbidden
on this website.

If you need this or any other content, we can send it to you via email.

Please, specify your valid email address

Can't find help with writing?
Let us write a paper for you!

Please, specify your valid email address