Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests: snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

The poem is a lovely one. It addresses the relationship between Heaney and his ancestors and the way in which Heaney has to find his own craft, knowing, as he does, that he has “no spade to follow men like them”.

Heaney’s skill is in words and he uses this poem to explore that skill and show respect for men like his father who bring food from the earth.

In 2010, I explained to a client, I want to do two things. Just two things.

I want to improve my writing and I want to grow potatoes.

That made me think of the poem which, in turn, made me think about finding your own path in life; digging your potato drills.

That way you end up producing the kind of work you’d want to eat.

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