At the end of every rainbow
there is a pot of gold,
when I was a child that was
the story I was told.
A child’s wide eyes
cannot hide his surprise.
and after every rain shower
I would search the skies
praying that one
might soon appear,
I would run outside
before it disappeared.
I now know the pots of gold
never did exist
but for a young child
the search was bliss.
The 50 year old poet 