You always forfeit your right to be regal, and tinge everything with humour and sweet humility, as though to show us how wrong we are about everything. No Arabian stallion for you, but a small, stocky donkey, one such as your mother rode that fateful night. No gold and lilies, but palm branches, green and thrown down, life ready to be trampled. Every thorn bush you pass reminds you of the crown you will soon wear for us.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018