Begin by banging out the g
as you always do, one fist cracking
down on the other. Now fling

all your fingers open – see them
as tremulous rivulets, winking suns.

But why waste time on a word
that’s not part of your everyday
like the shoes that stray from your feet
when you stumble to the dining room?
Gold won’t add to your mastery, deepen

your understanding. I know colours

fill out the bleakness as you stare
at the strange mouths sound makes
but you possess a bagful of purples,
red etc. so why bother with niceties?

And why on a day with a sky heavy
as an unmilked belly, grey as a face
that’s underfed, a day you’re lost in worry,
won’t be found until mother is home

from hospital, sovereign of your world again?

What is it then, the gold I want
to teach? More than money
misers tensely count, more
than a band on a wedding finger,
bangles dug from an Egyptian tomb.

It’s wet tarmac miracled by light
to an estuary of shine: a girl on a train,

her glossy hair fanned over
white paper arches, her hope;
that moment crosslegged on the floor

by a coalfire when I deciphered
my very first book; the way layer
on mountain layer of meaning unfolds
when two minds and hearts meet –
a vision incorruptible as the metal…

You repeat each letter on your fingers,
then reach for the rim of my watch
which echoes the electric strip
on the ceiling. Laughing, you drop
sadness for a moment, hold gold.