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.