Fast-fading Arctic summer

As we sail toward Nuuk, the boat crouches in the low space beneath the hovering fog and the mirrored sea, the still water stretching seaward like a sheet of grey metal. The white gates of the cemetary appear on a sloping shore, announcing the approaching town. And stretching out from the gates, two white fences gather the crowd of white crosses in their long arms, shielding them from the living town behind, drawing them in from the reach of the dark fjord ahead. Copper-coloured seaweed clings to the shore, limp and cold, waiting to be swallowed by the rising tide. On the lower slopes, the white blankets of the summer’s honey-smelling qajaasat flowers are now gone. Instead, cast out before the crosses, low shrubs spread their dark tentacled roots across the rocky soil, their autumn colours burnt onto the ground in memory of the fast-fading summer. Dark branches burst from this orange and crimson carpet, flecked with florets of golden leaves, like butterflies ready to alight. The long arms of those cemetary fences seem to stretch toward the towering mountain island of Sermitsiaq, across the dark water. Its top is veiled in advancing mist and dusted with the first late summer snow. It’s just a powder, just the first fleeting idea of winter. As I watch the cemetary disappear back into the fog, the boat’s wake rushes out behind us, its white arms parting the steely grey water, drifting in a foamy trail that glides over the retreating, diminishing waves. And then they, too, are gone.