evening flies blue
overhead,
dragging the night in
behind it.
I step outside
before it’s passed
to collect some blue
for a painting.
stones off the pavement
shine blue against twilight.
flowers
sing blue
on their leaves.
they stretch their necks
and they sing it.
beneath them
the soil is blue;
I reach down,
pick up handfuls
and stuff it in my pockets
like catching oysters.
it’s not all blue
but look closely
and blue shines
in little sparkles.
the smoke is blue
from the back of lorries
mixes with the wind
blowing blue from the east.
I come home
and my window is blue
and my table
rests with a winebottle. the bottle,
full of white wine
is yellow,
not blue,
but I pour a glass
and sip it.
it’s blue,
just like everything else.

# # #

DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. He published a collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, in 2016 with the Encircle Press and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Photo: Adrien Ledoux