Three short lines give us a small, shadowy world. The pool is dark, but it isn’t still: birds and stones send ripples across it, lightly as skiffs. A tree appears caught or reflected in that dark water, so its shape belongs both to the air and to the pool. Then, against the darkness, flowers push upward. The verb “fight” gives the poem its quiet drama. They are not gently blooming; they are insisting on reaching light.
The speaker seems to be watching closely, with a feeling between calm and sympathy. The mood is hushed and mysterious, but not despairing. There is resistance in the last line—growth happening against the pull of the dark pool. The poem feels like a brief snapshot of a place where stillness, reflection, and effort all exist at once.