Despite being closed off from the world, this garden is a site of the deepest sharing, soul to soul in silence. A place for the holy holding of hands, of mutual smiles and locked gazes. Romance and contemplation find a home here, senses drifting through the spears of lavender and lost in the hypnotic trickle of the fountain, a lion’s mouth dribbling into a stone basin.
It may be sheltered from the worst winds, but if you sit on this bench, shift your haunches back into the wood and close your eyes, you can still smell the ozone as it breezes in from the ocean a half mile away. Sea spray finds its way here, up a long and sandy track edged by waving grasses, settling on the face of any still stranger like the softest sting of snowflakes or an unexpected barrage of kisses.
A haven then, a sanctuary, a cloistered place out of the world’s way, where you are held firmly by oaken hands and your feet touch ground made sacred by the removal of sandals, beach grains shaken in a pile to one side, soles communing with cool earth.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016