I hiked the hills of Smokeshire
looking for my “pot of gold”.
I’d been told a mine was mined there once
and treasure hot and cold
was sought and lost by greater souls
in Smokeshire’s hills of old,
among its rocky, rough terrain,
not an easy climb
but I’d challenged rock, riverbed
and ledge a hundred times.

I’d heard that gold was in the stream,
nuggets big as your thumb
and I, thinking what gold could buy
sought to find me some.
The day was perfect, warm and balmy
when I thought to see what I might find.
I’d search those treasured hills of gold
and somehow I’d find me mine.

I panned the stream both up and down
for day long after day
but little gold was there I found,
‘least not enough to pay.
Though now and then a flake or two
of placer in the sand,
gold for gold in nuggets
was not so readily panned.

I found my search for treasure,
for wealth and happiness
was not so readily to be had,
’twas a vain search I guessed.
Though I enjoyed the challenge
I would not my aspirations meet.
To find pleasure in gold, find wealth,
my venture turned out to be defeat.

The mine itself had long collapsed
and been reclaimed by the land
and I don’t seem to have that golden touch
when it comes to sifting sand.
I never found my “pot of gold”
though I steadfastly panned the stream,
nor hopes of wealth and ease in life,
’twas all but a foolish dream.

For several days I sifted sand
and in the challenge I found pleasure,
enjoyed just being out of doors
though I found little shiny treasure.
My golden dream eluded me.
The story is so old.
The only nuggets that I found,
alas, were but “Fools Gold”.