在我的食指和拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

矮胖的笔在休息；安逸如一杆枪。

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

在我的窗下，一阵清越的挖掘声响起

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

当铁锹插进砾石地：

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

我的父亲，在挖掘。我向下看去

My father, digging. I look down

看见花圃间他紧绷的臀部

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

弯得低低的，重现二十年前的场景

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

在土豆苗陇上有节奏地踏行

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

他在挖掘。

Where he was digging.

磨损的靴子挂在马具上，长柄

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

紧贴大腿内侧结实地撬动。

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

他铲掉高苗，埋掉锋利的边缘

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

抛洒新苗，我们都爱它采摘后

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

捧在手里又凉又硬的感觉。

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

天哪，这老头耍铁锹是一把手。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

正像他父亲。

Just like his old man.

我的祖父一天能割更多的草皮

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

冬勒泽没人赶得上他。

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

一次我递给他一瓶牛奶

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

瓶口用纸随便塞着。他直起身

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

一口喝掉，转身继续利落地

To drink it, then fell to right away

又切又割，把草皮

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

扛过他的肩膀，一垄垄走过去

Over his shoulder, going down and down

寻找好草皮。挖。

For the good turf. Digging.

冰凉的土豆泥味，沉闷的泥炭

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

发出嘎吱声，刀锋在前面飞舞

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

唤醒了我大脑里的生命意识

Through living roots awaken in my head.

可我没有一把铁锹来追随他们。

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

在我的食指和拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

我的笔休息。

The squat pen rests.

我将用它来挖。

I’ll dig with it.