An Autumn Pond

I've pasted in the text,
Fiddled with the buttons and the checkbox,
Been tripped up by the dropdown,
Said "Fah" to the tagging
(If I can't think of a title even,
Can I be expected to assign a category?)
And finally picked Preview.
After a moment - "Shit".
In my mind there's this thing of perfection,
Of beauty and cunning complexity,
Not this laughable pirated numb-tongued counterfeit.

Later, while walking the dog,
I come to a small pond
Surrounded by trees. I stop here often,
Suspended between its surface and the sky.
In winter it drains through a culvert under the path
(Which is probably an old farm road in fact).
In summer it shrinks upon itself
Exposing muddy banks, birthing many a mosquito.
Looking at it you see mirrored trees and sky
Softened and somehow beautified.
If you move your head and look in shadow,
You can see a hint of what lies below:
A log, a scum covered rock,
Maybe the outlines of a tire.
Today it's all shuttered up,
Leaves - brown, red and yellow -
Cover its surface, no trees, no sky,
No hint of content, even where it's shallow.
I look at it for some time.

There's a terrific splash.
My dog's run up, hot, and thrown herself in.
She comes out shaking,
Coated with stinking black muck.
I think sadly of her in the car
What a drive home we'll share!
She's off again,
Running through the bracken,
Cool now her fur's an air conditioner.
She's left a patch quite clear
Where trees and sky are reflected again
And where with a shift of the eye
I get a hint of what lies hidden.

Does the thing of beauty have any existence?
Or is there only my incompetence?
I've come to doubt
The Lady Of The Lake ever handed anything out.

I whistle and set off.
I remember how I'd often felt I'd nailed it,
When drinking coffee in my cube,
When walking this same path, thinking about it,
Sometimes feeling, like a dope, quite exalted.
Perhaps when I get home, I will submit it.