… the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Is this The Rose of Tralee?
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap of soggy peat,
the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
A tour de France
Have you tried shoving it up your hole?
I’d recommend it to a friend
Anyone waxing lyrical about a lad waxing lyrical about cutting turf by hand, has never cut turf by hand. The same lads would complain about the weight of a bale of briquettes from superquinn.
Now that you mention it that red strapping cuts the hand off me.
Lethal stuff that plastic twine.