Alexander Nisbet. Behind the Mask. Oil on panel.

Sharp as a flint

He stared at me

Wrinkled old face like a gnarled apple

And one bird-like bright eye.

“Ye’ve come to see them, I’ll wager,”

With a knowing nod and chuckle.

“Ay, me little children, ye want to view.

Well, in ye go then, lass.”

He grinned like a nut-brown gnome

And threw wide the door

To his tiny hut, his palace, his shrine

Filled with his creations.

The maskmaker’s house, lined with faces

Every possible expression captured and frozen

The passage of time in clay, paper, wood

A craftsman of emotions.

Long time he showed me ‘round

And gave me a new face to hide behind.

“I’ve crafted every known visage,” he said sadly.

“And now there’s nought to do.”