The Cartographer’s Ink

Worlds Held in Ink

Image created by author using MidJourney

Ink bleeds
not just any ink
maps that breathe a soft
whisper of worlds under
their skin, where oceans
swell, and cities blink awake —
cradled in cartographer’s palms

a line spills
not just any line
does it slice through mountains
or stitch the valleys?
silence —
except the scratch
scratch
of quill on fibrous vellum, and then
a loud clash
like glass breaking somewhere far or near

each boundary a quiet contemplation,
drawn and redrawn
are the edges of the world so sure?
roads that twist, unasked for,
into being — soft murmurs
of the ink
the cartographer’s ink
swirling, potent with creation

space —
space enough for breath
between where sea meets land
meets sky — echoes
echoes of otherness
sounds of beginnings and ends colliding

if you listen
close —
close enough to hear the weeping willows
and the laughing brooks,
you might understand
the whisper
the weight of worlds
in the spill of ink.

This poem is a tribute to the boundless imagination of cartographers around the globe.

— © Nour Boustani 2024

Thanks, Claire Kelly and the team at Write Under The Moon.