It is cold. So cold I can see my breath. The engine
of my father's Volkswagen van turns over, but the
heater it is meant to drive has long since given up
the ghost. I pull my duffle coat tight around me,
rub my hands together, count to a hundred, then
from a hundred back to one, then to a hundred again.
In the winter dark,
beyond the windscreen, beyond
© Pat Boran
Heinrich Obermeyer pressed his right foot gently
on the spade and it slid obliquely through the soft
soil. He tugged at the shrunken stalk, uprooting it
and, scattering soil with the spade, disinterred the
potatoes. He picked one up and rubbed it on his
corduroy trousers and its skin emerged ochre from
the clay. "It is a good crop," he said aloud, as
though addressing a robin which, flaming in the
September sun, pecked worms from the fresh earth.
He began throwing potatoes into a wheelbarrow.
Heinrich had not always been such a contented
© Seamus Dunne