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Автор книги Seamus Heaney
Время прослушивания 00:32, Дата публикации
Средний уровень
Дом, семья, друзья
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My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung.
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert.
He would set the wing.
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck.
Of reins, the sweating team turned round.
And back into the land.
His eye.
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.