我的食指和拇指间

Between my finger and my thumb

夹着一支矮墩墩的笔，偎依着像杆枪

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

窗下，响起清脆刺耳的声音

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

铁锨正深深切入多石的土地

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

我的父亲在挖掘，我往窗下看去

My father, digging. I look down

直到他紧绷的臀部在苗圃间

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

低低弯下，又直起，二十年以来

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

这起伏的节奏穿过马铃薯垄

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

他曾在那儿挖掘

Where he was digging.

粗糙的长统靴稳踏在铁锨上，长柄

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

紧贴着膝盖内侧结实地撬动

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

他根除高高的株干，雪亮的锨边深深插入土中

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

我们捡拾他撒出的新薯

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

爱它们在手中又凉又硬

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

对上帝起誓，这位老人精于使用铁锨

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

就像他的父亲

Just like his old man.

我祖父一天挖出的泥炭

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

比任何在托尼尔挖炭的人都多

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

一次我给他送一瓶牛奶

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

用纸邋遢地塞上瓶口。他直起身

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

一口灌下，又立刻弯下身

To drink it, then fell to right away

继续利落地切割，把草皮

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

甩过肩，为得到更好的泥炭

Over his shoulder, going down and down

越挖越深。挖掘。

For the good turf. Digging.

马铃薯地里的冰凉气息，潮湿泥炭沼中的

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

咯吱声和啪叽声，铁锨锋利的切痕

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

穿透生命之根觉醒着我的意识

Through living roots awaken in my head.

可我没有铁锨去追随像他们那样的人

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

我的食指和拇指间

Between my finger and my thumb

夹着一支矮墩墩的笔。

The squat pen rests.

我将用它挖掘。

I’ll dig with it.