在我的食指与拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

夹着粗短的笔；舒适如一支枪。

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

我窗下，传来清脆的锉磨声

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

当铁铲切入含砂砾的地面：

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

父亲在挖掘。我往下看

My father, digging. I look down

直到他绷紧的臀部在花圃间

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

弯下去又挺起来，恍若二十年前

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

他有节奏地弓身于马铃薯垄

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

在那里挖掘。

Where he was digging.

粗陋的靴踩着铲头，柄

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

贴着膝盖内侧使劲撬动；

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

他锄掉高高的叶茎，将明亮的铲边深深埋进去，

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

把新马铃薯掀到四下里，我们拾起，

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

喜欢它们在我们手里冷硬的感觉。

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

上帝作证，老头还能挥舞铁铲。

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

如同他的老头。

Just like his old man.

祖父一天里在托纳沼泽地

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

铲的泥炭比任何人都要多。

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

有一次我给他送一瓶牛奶，

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

用纸随便塞住瓶口。他直起身

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

喝了，又立即开始干活，

To drink it, then fell to right away

利落地又切又割，把草泥

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

抛到肩后，不断往深处

Over his shoulder, going down and down

寻找好泥炭。挖掘。

For the good turf. Digging.

马铃薯霉的冷味，湿泥炭的嘎扎声

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

和啪嗒声，切下活根茎的短促刀声

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

在我头脑里回响。

Through living roots awaken in my head.

但我没有像他们那样干活的铁铲。

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

在我的食指与拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

夹着这支粗短的笔。

The squat pen rests.

我将用它挖掘。

I’ll dig with it.