These gardens tell stories of times past
When nothing but trowel and hand 
Laid the spine of petals 
In the hardening earth 

Our arrival by car is abrupt in this peace 
Out of place amongst the shoes and legs 
That has transported families of neighbouring towns 
To lie amongst these colours 

Pale pinks laid across the Entrer 
Balance a sea of green hill that rolls down to the dark river 
An uninviting strip of wet habitat
Left to rats of the water patrolling up and down 

Broken benches and old ornaments litter the river bank 
And contrast the sweeping paths tying the gardens hard work
To its veins   

These are fields at work 
Raw edges and biting temperature 
Cut potential from this jardin 
Of perpetual thirst 

We settle in the shade of two great trees 
Baring the brunt of this sun so we may rest 
But not for long 
We disappear across the uneven path 

Cut out through an open gate 
And return to our boiling car
Under the church spire
Watching our every move