Ponies, trees and tatties

Some rural images today. It was a public holiday so I had the day off. Took a drive out in the countryside with my wee camera for company. I'd passed these Shetland ponies a few times recently, but today I stopped. I knocked on the door of the house next to the field and sure enough they owned the ponies. I wanted to get in the field to take some close up pics. The poor guy who came to the door must've been about 90. Turned out they were his daughters ponies. She apparently got one about 15 years ago and they felt sorry for it cos it was lonely. So they got another, then it got preggers, pupped, foaled? Not sure of the expression! Today I counted eight and I'm sure there are more. Anyway he told me to come back when his daughter was there and I'd get into the field. I would have stayed and chatted longer but he looked perilously close to death, so I thanked him and snapped the pic from the road. 

If you click and enlarge, you'll see the two at the back are just puppy ponies, how cute are they?

It was a pretty grey day so I liked the way the blue tractor stood out on the landscape, especially against the deep brown of the turned earth. Tatties going in there I think.

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as 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 could 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, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mold, 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  For more My World posts click here