No Home Beyond The Easel Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Pearled into one
that hasn't already been painted.
The river quickens into whirlpools —
the dance of light
you see on a polecat's back
shortly before it disappears
into a terrain of dark canopy
that never stops climbing.

The river has no home
beyond the artist's easel,
waiting for the paint to dry.

The sky is a chalky cobalt blue.
Trees lean in like maulsticks.
Over a prism of reflection —
blue blends into black and back to blue,
pearled into one.