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. from ‘Digging’ by Seamus Heaney
‘Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.’
We’re getting started here on Bluesky, and thought the best possible way to introduce ourselves on a new platform would be our poem of the week, ‘Digging’ by Seamus Heaney.
