The Pond of Gold

By Ashwini Shajan

I gurgle in glee when the eastern gale blows,

until the rains fall free, I will forever flow.

Of beings in the village who fill mouthfuls of me,

there was old Mrs. Jill, with a weakened knee.

A hundred meters away, from Jill's cabin I lay,

the lone lady who once, had a family so gay.

But behind shrewd wives, the sons moved their ways,

leaving fragile, old Jill, alone every day.

Every day at dawn, when the sky turned red,

old Mrs. Jill ambled my way,

singing, “Ittery, dittery doo, I set out with my pail,

for water in my kitchen, in my kale and ale”.

Time was in race, as I gurgled in glee,

for I will always flow, until the rains fall free.

But then, a rumored piece said that underneath me,

lay a sheet of gold, not one could see.

Not a day did the grabby, chattery folk need,

to let slip their picnics and basking by me.

With blows on my rocks, my fish were stricken,

as my gurgles lessened, the folk felt richened.

Then came Jill, fuming from cap to sock,

with papers in hand, that sent the folk in shock.

They hurled their hammers, the helpless flock,

coz’ I was now Mrs. Jill's expensive dock.

By Ashwini Shajan