在我手指和大拇指中间

Between my finger and my thumb

一支粗壮的笔躺着，舒适自在像一支枪。

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

我的窗下，一个清晰而粗厉的响声

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

铁铲切进了砾石累累的土地：

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

我爹在挖土。我向下望

My father, digging. I look down

看到花坪间他正使劲的臀部

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

弯下去，伸上来，二十年来

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

穿过白薯垄有节奏地俯仰着，

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

他在挖土。

Where he was digging.

粗劣的靴子踩在铁铲上，长柄

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

贴着膝头的内侧有力地撬动，

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

他把表面一层厚土连根掀起，把铁铲发亮的一边深深埋下去，

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

使新薯四散，我们捡在手中，

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

爱它们又凉又硬的味儿。

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

说真的，这老头子使铁铲的巧劲

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

就像他那老头子一样。

Just like his old man.

我爷爷的土纳的泥沼地

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

一天挖的泥炭比谁个都多。

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

有一次我给他送去一瓶牛奶，

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

用纸团松松地塞住瓶口。他直起腰喝了，马上又干

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

开了，

To drink it, then fell to right away

利索地把泥炭截短，切开，把土．

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

撩过肩，为找好泥炭，

Over his shoulder, going down and down

一直向下，向下挖掘。

For the good turf. Digging.

白薯地的冷气，潮湿泥炭地的

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

咯吱声、咕咕声，铁铲切进活薯根的短促声响

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

在我头脑中回荡。

Through living roots awaken in my head.

但我可没有铁铲像他们那样去干。

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

在我手指和大拇指中间

Between my finger and my thumb

那支粗壮的笔躺着。

The squat pen rests.

我要用它去挖掘。

I’ll dig with it.