Between my finger and my thumb

我在食指和拇指之间

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

握着一支粗壮的笔，满怀信心。

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

窗下，传来清亮的嚓嚓声，

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

因为有铁锨挖进沙石的地面

My father, digging. I look down

父亲正在挖掘。我看着窗外

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

他吃力的后背在苗圃间

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

弯下又直起，到如今已二十年，

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

这起伏的节奏穿过马铃薯垅

Where he was digging.

他曾在那里挖掘。

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

粗糙的长统靴紧蹬铁锨的上缘，

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

锨把紧贴在膝盖内侧结实地撬动。

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

他铲去茎叶，闪亮的锨面滑入地皮

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

翻出马铃薯，我们拾起，

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

欣喜的双手触摸清凉硬实的薯块。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

上帝啊，父亲依然还能使用铁锨，

Just like his old man.

和我爷爷当年一样地辛劳。

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

爷爷每天挖出的泥炭

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

超过托纳泥炭地所有的人。

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

有一次我给他送去牛奶

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

胡乱用纸团充当瓶塞。

To drink it, then fell to right away

他直起腰来喝尽，立马又干起活来。

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

在泥炭上划线，整齐地分割

Over his shoulder, going down and down

将草皮甩过肩膀，越挖越深

For the good turf. Digging.

为了得到上好的泥炭。挖掘。

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

马铃薯地里的清凉气味，湿淋淋泥炭的吱吱声

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

锋利的铁锨切进强韧草根的嚓嚓声，

Through living roots awaken in my head.

重又在我的脑海里苏醒。

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

但是我没有铁锨追随他们。

Between my finger and my thumb

我在食指和拇指之间

The squat pen rests.

握着一支粗壮的笔。

I’ll dig with it.

我要用这支笔去挖掘。