Between my finger and my thumb

我的食指和拇指间

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

夹着一支矮墩墩的笔，偎依着像杆枪

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

窗下，响起清脆刺耳的声音

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

铁锨正深深切入多石的土地

My father, digging. I look down

我的父亲在挖掘，我往窗下看去

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

直到他紧绷的臀部在苗圃间

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

低低弯下，又直起，二十年以来

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

这起伏的节奏穿过马铃薯垄

Where he was digging.

他曾在那儿挖掘

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

粗糙的长统靴稳踏在铁锨上，长柄

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

紧贴着膝盖内侧结实地撬动

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

他根除高高的株干，雪亮的锨边深深插入土中

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

我们捡拾他撒出的新薯

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

爱它们在手中又凉又硬

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

对上帝起誓，这位老人精于使用铁锨

Just like his old man.

就像他的父亲

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

我祖父一天挖出的泥炭

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

比任何在托尼尔挖炭的人都多

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

一次我给他送一瓶牛奶

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

用纸邋遢地塞上瓶口。他直起身

To drink it, then fell to right away

一口灌下，又立刻弯下身

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

继续利落地切割，把草皮

Over his shoulder, going down and down

甩过肩，为得到更好的泥炭

For the good turf. Digging.

越挖越深。挖掘。

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

马铃薯地里的冰凉气息，潮湿泥炭沼中的

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

咯吱声和啪叽声，铁锨锋利的切痕

Through living roots awaken in my head.

穿透生命之根觉醒着我的意识

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

可我没有铁锨去追随像他们那样的人

Between my finger and my thumb

我的食指和拇指间

The squat pen rests.

夹着一支矮墩墩的笔。

I’ll dig with it.

我将用它挖掘。