The Canal
The axis does not end at the last fountain. It becomes water, and keeps going.
From the terrace the canal is a strip of sky laid on the ground. Close to the bank it smells of silt, cut grass, and the iron of old boats. We do not bottle the canal as a soliflore. It is the drydown of several houses: the mineral of the parterre, the shade of the bosquet, the metal of the fountain.
Walk it in the late day, when the west light makes the water the same colour as the gilt on the rail. That is the hour the house was drawn for.