Observations of Botanical Gardens

Large terracotta pots stand to attention. Topiary tree soldiers. An army of taller conifers stand tall behind at a distance. Veteran soldiers of a higher rank. The wide, deep terrace is crazed. Paved in random 'crazy' patterns. Solid teak chairs and tables sit empty, puddles of recent rain collected on arms and slatted table tops. The slope of the seats are strangely dry, stained russet and promising autumn.
A man's voice, the approach of flip flops. Idle comments, where to sit, what's good for his back, where's best to shelter in case of rain. The teapot has leaked
"take it back"
"it's alright"
"take it back, its not alright"
"no, no, it's fine"
The flip flop sound, he takes it back, she doesn't protest. Echoes of apology in the kitchens.
"Oh, sorry"
"no problem"
"These pots..."
"Oh, don't worry, its fine!"
The English way.
The flip flop noise gets louder with his return.

Loud clanking sounds of whirring demolition engines. A yellow arm of a digger lifting pieces of roof away from a nearby school. A bucket-shaped claw, swinging and returning, repeating the motion. Engines strain with relentless progress.

We all sit in our private worlds at separate tables, clinking cups, tapping forks, discussing cake under an Arts and Crafts veranda in a restored turn-of-the-century Edwardian villa. Wisteria is still in leaf, purple raemes long gone, it is tickling the sky with its tendrils. The celebrated family who built this place, they would have chatted about cake too. Would have bemoaned and celebrated progress in turns, just as we do.
Two women's voices.
"Shall we sit here?"
"Its up to you"
"Shall we? inside? outside?"
"I'm not sure"
"Inside, you decide, I really don't mind"
"Yes, inside, thats fine"
The English way.

The man in flip flops makes a call.
"Could you please ask Martin to call me please? Yes, well, if you wouldn't mind, its just that we are thinking of making a cash offer on the property. Would you mind at all if we had a look at it? Its just that it might be good to find out a little more, get a feel for the property. Yes, well, ok then, if you wouldn't mind, yeah, ok"

They would have sat here too, making polite offers, working out their sums, stretching their budgets, investing their cash, apologising for nothing at all, trying not to offend. A huge black bird with wings extended into witches fingers flies overhead. A tiny spider crawls across the dappled grey and sand paving. The contours like mountains. A wayward ant searches for direction and it seems that nothing really changes in moments like these. There are crumbs on the table from a previous feast. A lurid rippled green glass jar, an extinguished tea-light reaching the end of its useful life.

We hear a shocking crack as the demolition vehicle bites chunks of timber from an attic space. Through to a walled garden. Gravel crunches underfoot. An overwhelming floral scent, drying lavender, blooming stocks, catnip and the promising smell of rain-soaked earth, birds chatter. The demolition continues, but within these walls there are only gentle sounds. Wheelbarrows on pathways, nip, nip, nip of borders being snipped, neatening the edges of the flower beds. Low male voices discussing practical matters. A distant drone of a motorbike. So late in August and the bees and flowers persist. Indigo blue sweetpea flowers creep up a wigwam made from sticks and twine. Plush, purple daisies needlessly smooth and luxurious like velvet. Discs of pink punctured with purple and a button of yellow nod slowly and sagely, heads the size of petite hands. Glossy red chard, beetroot, and curly lettuces their colour a mix of balsamic vinegar and hops, sit in queues waiting for recipes. They are promising us late Summer salad for the last days of August and Italian casseroles for warming the first chill of Autumn. The towering wall of beech trees at he far side of the garden shimmers with laquered sheen the colour of morello cherries. The trees quiver in the breeze.
Some lazy red and apricot roses and some tardy thistles puncture the soft feathered greens. A lone surviving tower of runner beans is still dotted with scarlet orange flowers. A Christmas tree for Summer. The clover in the lawn is a cushion underfoot. Artichokes shoot boldly from the borders of the grass pathway. A sharp contrast to the quilt underneath. The sky is inky and bubbling and I am ready for my lunch. Time to go home.