I just went downstairs again, and stood by tthe back door. the air now seems clear and fresh. I seldom go in to the garden, or any province of my father much, and so I lack knowledge of it. What I said earlier here was thus unfounded – for the most part. looking from tthe back door into the garden, I remembered the times dad had taken me there, onto the lawn, into fresh air. anger vaniishes like dawn mists, and I thought of Heaney’s poem: [quote=”Seamus Heaney”]DIGGING
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
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.[/quote]