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