The Walled Garden

Came across the walled garden at twilight, in those little-explored streets between Portland Road and the seafront. Empty roads, and the spill of willow-trees over a high fence, a man walking his dog, vanishing into the nightfall corner.
I don't know what the building is. It looks curiously Mediterranean, but this could just be an effect of the warm summer night. Around the building, the gardens are hidden by a high and curving wall. Clustered branches silhouette themselves against the darkening blue of the sky. Their curious spiralling nature makes them look like tentacles.
I wonder on the garden itself, that hidden space below the trees. It is this wondering that makes such spaces so mysterious; are they tangled, are they neatly kept, is the ground here covered with leaves, discarded autumn-skin over always damp earth?
I pass the building by, leave it behind, reach the seafront just before dark. There is a bright full moon. The reflected moonlight looks oddly artificial, as if the result of a giant celestial lightbulb. I sit on a bench and drink a can of diet-Coke, watch the boats seemingly drift on the horizon. The pale deck-lights are as unreal as the moon. From this distance they look like the heads of miniature street-lamps, bobbing on the waves.