Pots

Pots are hidden all around, If you can see to find them. In plain sight or in the ground They cradle goods of priceless worth To treasure seekers low or grand.

This boy is only just a man, Though seven years a soldier. Conviction born of honest youth, He cuts a straight and steady path, Through a grey and wintry land.

Like all who journey seeking gold He has a cunning plan. To learn the skill of finding pots And mapping their locations, And then the oh-so-tricky art Of total pot extraction.

He quizzes men from foreign climes With tales of derring-do. Dazzled by their savoir faire, And humbled by their worldly cares His searching gaze turns to his self, In ardent introspection.

His youthful ears hear much. His youthful hand transcribes the facts. And then this childlike man moves on To get the trick of finding gold From the next, and many wise men.

In later life the man reflects That once or twice he thought the gold Was there, within his reach. Or, no, much closer! Before his face, A whispered breath away! But earnest eyes and scribbling hand Had looked too hard to see, Or written down what should be done, Or startled pride had led him dumb away.

And yet without him seeing, The pots somehow found him, And now their contents fill his life With riches that when younger He had neither seen nor longed for.