Poems of Place

The Pot of Gold

(Bristol, England)

Pounding on my neighbour’s door, I pointed
to the rainbow poised on top of the meadow.
‘I’ve got to find the pot of gold at the end’,
I panted.
‘Bring some back for me,’ she laughed.
I ran fast and then faster,
Then at last, I grasped her.
Butting my head against the rainbow’s belly
I suckled, my back-end wagging boldly.
But before I could drink my fill, the rainbow bolted.
I bleated for her to come back.
Searching high and searching low,
I scooped up as much as my arms could carry
and scampered back to my neighbor
leaving behind me a trail of
dandelion-orange and buttercup-yellow;
grass-green and sky-blue;
rain-cloud-indigo and flower-violet.
‘Here it is,’ I laughed.
‘I found it.’