Gardens dotted along the line of your life are oases for us too. Where you placed us, and walked in the cool of evening, naming us and fashioning the first Designer clothes. Where your forehead oozed bitter blood, and you longed to sink deep into olive roots. Where you prayed and we slept. Where your death began with a kiss in the scented night air. Where you rested for a time and then awaited angelic hands to roll the millstone from around your neck, our sin borne and removed. And where you smiled at Mary and spoke her name and cartwheeled her heart and ours.
© Photo and text Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016