Happy New Year to all our ancestors,
The rich ones (you) who made the lake, and me
Who called a remote gardener to his tea.
Mine have all died back and so have yours.

We are the wintry paying sightseers
Whose home is somewhere else and who
Live comfortably on salary and fee
And like this place. Nothing above ground stirs.

Lichen has stopped climbing round the urn.
The mole-hills look extinct. The temples crouch
But will not now scuttle away. A turn

In the path brings us full circle through the plans
Of those improvers, and in the last reach
Shine one still light and seven motionless swans.