Clairvoyant Landscapes Moving-Yet-Frozen Poem by Mark Heathcote

Give-me-a-paintbrush to define poetry
all movements of a riverbed reflected
give-me-a-pen inks-flowing subjectively.
I'll show you spotted salmon swam swimmingly
to climb out the furthest-deepest-falls.

A poets-like a woodlouse's gnawing
away at life, from the marrow inside-out
what he builds places us in the quivering air.
A bridge over the void of space
like a spider weaving her web to snare.

Poets tend to live in Blue-John mines
in some mystical crystal hermits cavern
listening to the lapping of spring waters
they're like remote smokestacks lingering
on clairvoyant landscapes moving yet frozen.