Between my finger and my thumb

在我的食指和拇指之间

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

矮胖的笔在休息；安逸如一杆枪。

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

在我的窗下，一阵清越的挖掘声响起

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

当铁锹插进砾石地：

My father, digging. I look down

我的父亲，在挖掘。我向下看去

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

看见花圃间他紧绷的臀部

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

弯得低低的，重现二十年前的场景

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

在土豆苗陇上有节奏地踏行

Where he was digging.

他在挖掘。

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

磨损的靴子挂在马具上，长柄

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

紧贴大腿内侧结实地撬动。

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

他铲掉高苗，埋掉锋利的边缘

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

抛洒新苗，我们都爱它采摘后

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

捧在手里又凉又硬的感觉。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

天哪，这老头耍铁锹是一把手。

Just like his old man.

正像他父亲。

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

我的祖父一天能割更多的草皮

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

冬勒泽没人赶得上他。

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

一次我递给他一瓶牛奶

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

瓶口用纸随便塞着。他直起身

To drink it, then fell to right away

一口喝掉，转身继续利落地

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

又切又割，把草皮

Over his shoulder, going down and down

扛过他的肩膀，一垄垄走过去

For the good turf. Digging.

寻找好草皮。挖。

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

冰凉的土豆泥味，沉闷的泥炭

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

发出嘎吱声，刀锋在前面飞舞

Through living roots awaken in my head.

唤醒了我大脑里的生命意识

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

可我没有一把铁锹来追随他们。

Between my finger and my thumb

在我的食指和拇指之间

The squat pen rests.

我的笔休息。

I’ll dig with it.

我将用它来挖。