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Thursday, August 31, 2017

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.


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.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney.


August 31, 2017 | Permalink


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