http://localhost/mediawiki/index.php?action=history&feed=atom&title=OFC_22_Jun_2020%3A_DiggingOFC 22 Jun 2020: Digging - Revision history2026-04-08T08:30:08ZRevision history for this page on the wikiMediaWiki 1.35.6http://localhost/mediawiki/index.php?title=OFC_22_Jun_2020:_Digging&diff=1009&oldid=prevJess: /* Digging */2022-09-24T22:11:13Z<p><span dir="auto"><span class="autocomment">Digging</span></span></p>
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</table>Jesshttp://localhost/mediawiki/index.php?title=OFC_22_Jun_2020:_Digging&diff=1008&oldid=prevJess: Created page with "OFC Meetings --> here ---- <center> ==Digging== ====by Seamus Heaney==== </center> Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window,..."2022-09-24T22:10:47Z<p>Created page with "<a href="/mediawiki/index.php/OFC_Meetings" title="OFC Meetings">OFC Meetings</a> --> here ---- <center> ==Digging== ====by Seamus Heaney==== </center> Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window,..."</p>
<p><b>New page</b></p><div>[[OFC Meetings]] --> here<br />
----<br />
<center><br />
==Digging==<br />
====by Seamus Heaney====<br />
</center><br />
<br />
Between my finger and my thumb <br />
<br />
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.<br />
<br />
Under my window, a clean rasping sound<br />
<br />
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:<br />
<br />
My father, digging. I look down<br />
<br />
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds<br />
<br />
Bends low, comes up twenty years away<br />
<br />
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills<br />
<br />
Where he was digging.<br />
<br />
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft<br />
<br />
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.<br />
<br />
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep<br />
<br />
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,<br />
<br />
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.<br />
<br />
By God, the old man could handle a spade.<br />
<br />
Just like his old man.<br />
<br />
My grandfather cut more turf in a day<br />
<br />
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.<br />
<br />
Once I carried him milk in a bottle<br />
<br />
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up<br />
<br />
To drink it, then fell to right away<br />
<br />
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods<br />
<br />
Over his shoulder, going down and down<br />
<br />
For the good turf. Digging.<br />
<br />
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<br />
<br />
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<br />
<br />
Through living roots awaken in my head.<br />
<br />
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.<br />
<br />
Between my finger and my thumb<br />
<br />
The squat pen rests.<br />
<br />
I’ll dig with it.</div>Jess