Digging

(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.