Pond
There is a spot at the Garden Gate
Of which we're very fond
With life abounding here of late -
It is of course our pond.
This Winter was not cold enough
To cover it with ice;
Disturbed a little by a puff
Of wind - effect is "nice".
Surrounded by a wooden fence
And verge for several plants
To lean and watch when we are tense
And merge into a trance.
And then, behold! It's feeding time
for fish both black and gold
Emerged in Spring from Winter clime
Survived the Winter's cold.
K.M. Pettitt.
