我在食指和拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

握着一支粗壮的笔，满怀信心。

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

窗下，传来清亮的嚓嚓声，

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

因为有铁锨挖进沙石的地面

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

父亲正在挖掘。我看着窗外

My father, digging. I look down

他吃力的后背在苗圃间

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

弯下又直起，到如今已二十年，

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

这起伏的节奏穿过马铃薯垅

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

他曾在那里挖掘。

Where he was digging.

粗糙的长统靴紧蹬铁锨的上缘，

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

锨把紧贴在膝盖内侧结实地撬动。

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

他铲去茎叶，闪亮的锨面滑入地皮

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

翻出马铃薯，我们拾起，

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

欣喜的双手触摸清凉硬实的薯块。

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

上帝啊，父亲依然还能使用铁锨，

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

和我爷爷当年一样地辛劳。

Just like his old man.

爷爷每天挖出的泥炭

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

超过托纳泥炭地所有的人。

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

有一次我给他送去牛奶

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

胡乱用纸团充当瓶塞。

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

他直起腰来喝尽，立马又干起活来。

To drink it, then fell to right away

在泥炭上划线，整齐地分割

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

将草皮甩过肩膀，越挖越深

Over his shoulder, going down and down

为了得到上好的泥炭。挖掘。

For the good turf. Digging.

马铃薯地里的清凉气味，湿淋淋泥炭的吱吱声

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

锋利的铁锨切进强韧草根的嚓嚓声，

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

重又在我的脑海里苏醒。

Through living roots awaken in my head.

但是我没有铁锨追随他们。

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

我在食指和拇指之间

Between my finger and my thumb

握着一支粗壮的笔。

The squat pen rests.

我要用这支笔去挖掘。

I’ll dig with it.