Under the January sunlight the water
mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming creek . . .
a few Poland ducks.
Not much of a parody, but "The Wild Swans at Coole" is a poem I think of when I look at the trees, the reflections, and when I wish the paths were dry! It's so wet, the trees are rotting at the roots. Every time there's a big wind (like today), a few trees topple over. Huge sycamores block the trails.
There's also a bid to frack under the park here as well, which worries me.
The Wild Swans at Coole
THE TREES are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans . . .
And the last stanza, which I can't not include . . .
But now they drift on the still water
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?