![]() | ![]() It is cold. So cold I can see my breath. The engine of my father's Volkswagen van turns over, but the heater it is meant to drive has long since given up the ghost. I pull my duffle coat tight around me, rub my hands together, count to a hundred, then from a hundred back to one, then to a hundred again. In the winter dark,
beyond the windscreen, beyond © Pat Boran | ![]() Heinrich Obermeyer pressed his right foot gently on the spade and it slid obliquely through the soft soil. He tugged at the shrunken stalk, uprooting it and, scattering soil with the spade, disinterred the potatoes. He picked one up and rubbed it on his corduroy trousers and its skin emerged ochre from the clay. "It is a good crop," he said aloud, as though addressing a robin which, flaming in the September sun, pecked worms from the fresh earth. He began throwing potatoes into a wheelbarrow. Heinrich had not always been such a contented © Seamus Dunne |
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HOMEPAGE |