the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

fool’s gold

It was the afternoon of Queenstown’s adolescent hustle. Later we found that
small town, named for the arrow swiftness of its small river born in steep
highlands of schist stacked sideways that leaked ancient gold, on its
whim, to bright-eyed and desperate Irish and Chinese, enduring winters
sheltered by those same flat and shining rocks. Up Bush Creek, we shook
gravel in pans in its icy current in search of overlooked treasure; the
glittering specks we chanced on, no doubt, Fool’s gold; no matter. There
was gold enough in that evening for this fool: sparkling ale shared in
brown bottles that flashed metallic in the summer sunset; the familiar
golden halo of your hair; the riches of your conversation and laughter
as we sat eating on star-sparkled stones and saw green leaves brighten
brassy in the evening’s glow.

Fools Gold

November 2001
Image cropped from original at


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