Westcoast Paintbrush Poem by John Beaton

It captures the steelhead and pictures the loon,
congeals the sun's blood on the sky, makes the moon
with the face of an eagle seem stunned in mid-stare,
and freezes the snowflakes to stars in mid-air.

It catches the crests of the mountains, those waves
we hope will not break till we're safe in our graves,
arrests slanting rain wires and shows through their grille
old spirits in costumes of scale, fur, and quill.

It stills the high passes in winterkill's grip,
clasps rivers in canyons, immerses its tip
in a mist and enravels gray horses and men
who encircle their campfire like wolves round a den.

It writes in faint letters "We paddle with you"
as a watermark under a waking canoe
which it draws to a standstill, reflected, for we
are all likewise afloat in the shell of one tree.

In myth, fallen paintbrushes flowered and spread
till they rendered the meadows and mountainsides red
and inspired local artists to trap what they see
but their scenes, like the paintbrushes, always break free.

So the steelhead tail-swishes and swims, and the loon
spears the sunset, which bleeds on the sky as the moon
uncages its eagle, and snowflakes in flight
spread over the canvas like flowers of light.

The mountains change colors and rockfalls resume
as the rain lashes down and the waterfalls spume
and the spirits of elders dissolve from the trees
and escape through the walls to the wild's galleries.

And the mountain men climb on their horses and ride
on the high trails, traversing the steep mountainside
as their fire gutters down to a single low flame
and the snowmelt makes icewater drip from the frame.

And the paddles stroke steadily till they are gone
but the waves of their wake will go rippling on
in the minds of the audience standing before
these still-lifes the eye and the ermine hair bore.