Fugitive Fragments

by Mike McGuire

“Digging”

Mike:

Valé Seamus Heaney, Bard of Ireland – Mike

Originally posted on Sigurlaug S:

The Irish poet Seamus Heaney has died aged 74. Heaney received The Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995.

“Digging” by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; 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…

View original 91 more words

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3 thoughts on ““Digging”

  1. I love that I can hear him reading this! Thanks so much for stopping by my blog – I have to go to the library to look into more of Heaney’s books. So great.

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