(in homage to Seamus Heaney)
How has it taken
Fifty four years
To learn the difference
Between a spade
And a shovel?
Spades I’ve had many,
But the shovel is recent.
Inherited from my
Father-in-law who
Knew his tools.
He owned two scythes,
The blades brought back
As hand luggage from
Austria in the days
When that was possible.
Despite owning a slasher,
He still cut grass
With the Scythe.
Said the cows liked it better
Untainted by fumes.
Sweeping in great arcs
He showed me
How the blade was angled,
Just so, to catch
The grass along its edge:
“To Slice, not Chop.”
Precise words to
Describe an action
Honed as keen
As the blade.
Pausing often
To run the whet stone
Over the edge,
He told me the secret
To a good blade:
“Have just the right compromise
Between Hardness and Flexibility.”
Too hard and the blade will snap;
Too soft and you won’t
Get a fine cutting edge.
In Austria, he said,
A good scythe was
A treasured thing.
Before it wore down
It was taken to the Blacksmith
Who would twang it with
A finger, listening
To the vibrations
And transfer the same note
To a new blade:
Just hard enough to cut well;
Not so hard as to be brittle.
Each new blade a song
Going back generations -
Singing the instrument
To its perfect shape.
…
In my garden
The shovel is a revelation
The back-breaking
Spade work transformed
Into something elegant and precise;
A measured economy of
Movement that has
A rhythm like poetry.
The length
Of the handle
Teaching me to bend
And use my legs,
Hands positioned to
Make the most of
The angle of the blade.
Bend, slice, lever
Lift, thrust, flick
And the motion
Repeats drawing me
Into a reverie
And memories of
My uncle in Shetland
Showing me the peat bog
Where he cut slabs
Of peat for the winter.
The tools looking
Like crazed creations
From a lunatic blacksmith
But having, in fact,
A form perfect for their function.
Nick, slice, lever,
Lift, thrust and pile
The sods on the bank
Where they dry to provide heat
Through the winter.
On the hill nearby
Are the marks of peat lines
That contour down,
Fading as the new
Heather heals the scars.
Each line another chapter
In the story of generations
That dig this hill,
Bottom to top in a
Rhythm that marks millennia.
…
My driveway is quickly finished.
A couple of days enough
For it to look like new
And for me to discover
This tool that teaches me
Who I am.
