People pass through my court.
I sit, posed within my frame
as the wondering wandering
walk. Some talk, some gawk.
People pass through my court,
staring at my auburn hair,
staring at my enigmatic eyes,
staring at my enigmatic smile.
I sit, open for a world to see,
closed with secrets in painted hues
of greens, oranges, reds and blues.
I sit, maybe jocund, but silent,
for centuries. Clocks tick. I sat. I sit.
Through all celebrations,
through all tragedies,
through all heartaches,
I slept with an old atlas at my head,
beneath the headboard. Between the wood
and wall. Upon the vague borders of sleep,
the light was wavering, and I wondered
about the shifting names and lines we’ve drawn,
of mountains torn in twain in mind but not;
have they been caught in the crossfire of ink
and bullet-tips, or do they stand beyond all that?
Dreams began to row my body inland,
and I knew the page to find them again,
the places and times shown upon no map.
Blair Center is a writer from Inverurie, in the North-East of Scotland. Center has had poetry published by Dreich, Leopard Arts, and The Hyacinth Review. Whether in English, Scots, or his local tongue, Doric, Center finds that themes of nature, memory, identity, and place particularly and consistently motivate his work.