Panning
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.