Not ‘Digging’ (the only poem Heaney’s father ever wrote)

Thon boy of ours is one useless hoor.
A heap of turf still to be cut and he’s
leaning against the fence with his two
arms the one length, wanting to know
if his grandfather thinks the sound is
more of a squelch or slap. That wee
shite’s on his last warning. Winter’ll
soon be coming and the fire’ll need to
be burning, and if not sods of peat,
it’ll be his dreamy Joyce and precious Keats.