Panning
Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)
She’d shifted stones,
stirred debris, swished gravel
and searched countless streams
in Scotland, Canada, The States.
The rings they forged
with gold she dug,
from leggy youth,
beneath a shining sieve
she saw her pink feet grow.
Panning skills came with
learning to endure aching limbs,
hardship and biting bugs.
But always a thrill
to press her finger on wet glitter,
see the yellow dust crown the tip,
then drop it in the water-jar.
Time built her little pile
particle on shining particle
into a sparkling storm,
a splendour Beowolf
nor the wealth of kings could steal.
Her wild gold.
Panned from rivers.
The collection of a seeking life.
Her precious booty
for the man she sifted out, settled on
and gave her binding signature.
Two rings to hold two hearts.