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The Centre by Ruth Osman

Here we stand,
palm to palm,
a spider’s web
spanning oceans,
our threads anchored
to brutal histories, buoyed
by renegade winds.

Along the arc
of our intentions,
fugitive futures bloom,
tight buds tethered
to loam, nurtured
by hands grown craggy
with toil, grimed
with the soil
of our aspirations.

Here
is the centre —
in the fellowship
of trees, dancing
to the wind’s lavway.

Here
is the centre —
where feet drum earth
and rum flows
for the gods of marronage.

Here
is the centre —
where old stories gather flesh
and come alive as we blow
on their bones.

Here
is the centre —
the black hole that pulls
us in and through
to new horizons,
blue with promise.

Here is the centre.
Here is the centre.
Here is the centre.