Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

Corner Store
Pitch black the night,
Blind in the dark,
No white light,
No friendly glow,
The corner store is shut,
And maybe never opened,
And they weren’t there,
Perhaps never had been,
Did the birds sing?
Was it a flautist's note?
Or nothing at all?
Perhaps the rain dancing,
Or clouds crying,
Wind against face,
Or face against wind?
Or was it the sun laughing,
Hollow and white?
Or nothing at all?
A baby crying,
Or a gasp?
What are tears and smiles
in the very long slumber?
The Death,
Free-wheeling on a roundabout,
On and on,
Is it painful?
Or nothing at all?

A crumb of dirt maybe,
Playing on parched grass,
One particle that lolls
in the undergrowth,
Buried by incalculable years,
Stark tree, whose branches groan
and strain against a weak foothold,
It will fall in a thousand years,
And be nothing at all,
Did it feel a limb snap?
Did the trunk scream
as the bough fractured?
Did it happen?
Did I happen?
Were embers glowing red-bright,
Or was it a fog beam in a no-day?
Or nothing at all?
The corner store did not exist
at the end of the lane,
And the lane runs always,
Not a twist, not a turn,
It never was,
Never is,
Nor was I,
And it isn’t painful
because Death is nothing at all,
And life is nothing at all,
It has never been,
And the end is
the beginning of nought.
© Michael Garrad February 2010