Seamus Heaney’s Digging, the opening poem of his debut collection Death of a Naturalist, is often celebrated as a love poem to heritage, labor, and familial bonds. Though not a traditional romantic poem, Digging delves into the profound love and respect Heaney feels for his father and grandfather, whose toil shaped his identity.
Through vivid imagery and a rhythmic flow, Heaney contrasts the physical labor of his forebears—digging with spades—with his own labor of writing. The metaphorical “digging” into memory and tradition reveals a deep affection for his roots. Lines like “But I’ve no spade to follow men like them” underscore his reverence for their work while affirming his own path as a poet.
Digging is a love poem in the broader sense, celebrating the enduring connection between generations. Heaney’s powerful language and personal reflection remind us that love transcends romance—it’s found in legacy, respect, and the work that binds us to our past.

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.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
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.