Richard Copeland

Late Night Opening

Buy two, get one free, the red tag tempts, teasing
as a temple prostitute displaying her wares
in the all night day long store.
A thing caught between times, it becomes
a whispering vault of ghosts, shelf-stacking
in reverential silence cracked by the till's sharp beep
of acknowledgement, purring out a paper tongue.

A time when even brash banners seem to whisper
quiet confidences of twenty pence off here, fifty there
and, by the way, special reductions on Australian wines
(not sold after eleven o'clock, so forget it).

Prowl these postered aisles of gleaming tins.
Emblazoned cartons stand where labels leer.
Try to remember what need brought us here
to this unsleeping temple of must-have.
Something half forgotten dream-drifts vaguely,
slinks away behind the deli counter
now deserted, polished, gleaming empty.

Night time store dreams
a slow pad of patrons
caught somewhere
between sleep and shopping.

Where aisle-separated phantoms shuffle

no one speaks.

Richard Copeland © 2008

'Late Night Opening' was first published in Envoi.
All poems from Richard Copeland's forthcoming
collection This Is Not A Sonnet (Survivors' Press, 2008)

Sarajevo 1914

That first shot was the detonator;
a tiny spit of flame igniting
the main charge
that was Europe.

The fire spread rapidly, burning all
in its path, destroying
the work of hands
for centuries laid down

with love, honour and spite
brought to dust, fire and blood,

Death's dominion supreme,
nations lay smoking,
shock-splintered,
unstitched.

Where did men come from to come
to this? What drove
barbarians to fight
all against all?

That first shot
still reverberates.
Echoes back
to Cain.

Thistles

Spear sharp against the sky, the thistles stand,
their plumed war bonnets
of purple plush
challenging the eye
to question their purpose

Whose partisans spike the air against
the vengeful grasp of uprooting hands
that would tear them from resisting earth

unwanted

they stand defiant
firmly rooted
grim as Thermopylae
  awaiting
the execution stroke of the hoe's blade
  later to return
  unbeaten.

Richard Copeland © 2008