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 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.
These ‘roots’ are ambiguous, referring to the remains of the potato crop from the previous year, but also the emotional identification by the poet with the land and people of his home. Also, ‘roots’ is a  homophone  and may be read as ‘routes’, in that the memories trigger more memories, like a journey.
Digging