The Copper Engraver

(for Roy Cooney)


A small workshop

Bespoke to his modest needs,

He sits light-feted.

A window gathers his garden.


On his bench a burnished lake of copper.

Submerged within, stored images,

Sprung from this bed by his graver,

Like a resurrection.

His lozenge-headed tool

Ballets along the surface,

Each glide or pirouette, a shape.

An almost silent schism

From the hand of a sorcerer.


This intaglio will breed

Life size sea-horses,

Lich-gate romances,

A blazonry of bookplates.

But first the dampened paper

And inked plate are mated.

Then cushioned by blankets or felt

The press rolls over the accouchement

And a print is born.



© Derek Power.