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Digging - Coggle Diagram
Digging
Poem:
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My father, digging. I look down
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Bends low, comes up twenty years away
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The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
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He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
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By God, the old man could handle a spade,
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To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
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The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
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can use his pen instead of a gun, as a weapon. It
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as part of a chain gang doing hard labour. During slavery, the slaves would create
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