PATRICK O’REILLY

Blue Strands

In the dark, we are two
almost people, 
necks bent,
watching the stars sharpen
and arrange themselves
into their ancient characters.

Everything else is colour,
no colour, and texture:
the Koksoak turning,
its blue sand ridged like crinoline,
the night making abstract
the most concrete country
either of us has made
temporary home in.

A Twin Otter cuts
loud enough to rattle
the settlement back into being.
The blue of everything deepens.
This will be a memory, you say.
It will. And when it is,
and for a long while after,
I mourn the moment’s passing.