Today,

the boating pond

is almost deserted;

only the waterbirds remain

this late.

A breeze

combs the surface,

teasing out its tresses

in rippling waves across the pond’s

mirror.

Two swans,

staid and stately,

sail seven seas among

a busy harbourful of ducks

and gulls;

strung out

in their wakes bob

a squadron of cygnets,

fully grown but still moulting brown

and grey.

The trees

on the south bank

nod their heavy shadows

low over their own reflections,

tiredly.