The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Under my window, a clean rasping sound Just like his old man. When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My grandfather cut more turf in a day My father, digging. I look down Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Till his straining rump among the Corked sloppily with paper. He flowerbeds straightened up Bends low, comes up twenty years away To drink it, then fell to right away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Where he was digging. Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft The cold smell of potato mould, the Against the inside knee was levered squelch and slap firmly. Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep Through living roots awaken in my head. To scatter new potatoes that we picked, But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Loving their cool hardness in our hands.