Mandatory Potato Poem

My grandad dug potatoes for a living

long ago in Australia when he was young,

chiselling them out of the hard-baked soil

then leaving the field each day exhausted

with his back bent as low as the landscape;

resilient and adaptable

like the generations before him,

humble but proud like the potato itself.

A tour guide on the famine ship in Dublin

told us the Irish were known to be tall

because of all the potatoes they ate.

I, six foot three, said: we are and we do.

Published in Tattie Zine

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