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 died yesterday. He was only in his 70's. Some of you might remember this poem (which is filled with such evocative imagery) from English 11.
Tomorrow we're back to school. I like school (as evidenced by nearly half a century spent there) but I will miss these lazy summer days with no schedule. On our walk this morning, Daisy and I noticed how September-y the air feels. It's warm but those days of "mist and mellow fruitfulness" (that's Keats) are here.
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