Digging 挖掘
Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.Under my window a clean rasping soundWhen the spade sinks into gravelly ground:My father, digging. I look downTill his straining rump among the flowerbedsBends low, comes up twenty years awayStooping in rhythm through potato drillsWhere he was digging.The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaftAgainst the inside knee was levered firmly.He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deepTo scatter new potatoes that we pickedLoving their cool hardness in our hands.By God, the old man could handle a spade,Just like his old man.My grandfather could cut more turf in a dayThan any other man on Toner's bog.Once I carried him milk in a bottleCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened upTo drink it, then fell to right awayNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sodsOver his shoulder, digging down and downFor the good turf. Digging.The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edgeThrough living roots awaken in my head.But I've no spade to follow men like them.Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests.I'll dig with it. 挖掘在我手指和大拇指中间一支粗壮的笔躺着，舒适自在像一支枪。我的窗下，一个清晰而粗厉的响声铁铲切进了砾石累累的土地：我爹在挖土。我向下望看到花坪间他正使劲的臀部弯下去，伸上来，二十年来穿过白薯垄有节奏地俯仰着，他在挖土。粗劣的靴子踩在铁铲上，长柄贴着膝头的内侧有力地撬动，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，使新薯四散，我们捡在手中，爱它们又凉又硬的味儿。说真的，这老头子使铁铲的巧劲就像他那老头子一样。我爷爷的土纳的泥沼地一天挖的泥炭比谁个都多。有一次我给他送去一瓶牛奶，用纸团松松地塞住瓶口。他直起腰喝了，马上又干开了，利索地把泥炭截短，切开，把土．撩过肩，为找好泥炭，一直向下，向下挖掘。白薯地的冷气，潮湿泥炭地的咯吱声、咕咕声，铁铲切进活薯根的短促声响在我头脑中回荡。但我可没有铁铲像他们那样去干。在我手指和大拇指中间那支粗壮的笔躺着。我要用它去挖掘。（袁可嘉译）
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