Posted: 25/04/22

Sunrise 27 March - Simon Buckley

There is no such thing as a dull dawn, each time the night melts away and the day emerges there are passages of magic.  As to whether daybreak is considered good or bad is down entirely to our own response and, if we really look, there is always something memorable to witness.

As I entered the box, to the east a flare of vivid pink invaded the various greys that covered the early morning sky.  This explosion of colour was soon gone but it was a reminder of the joy that can exist in the early morning.

There are so few words in the English language for the myriad colours that exist.  We always have to find ways of defining them.  Deep red, pale grey, rich blue.  A twilight sky, especially one filled with cloud, provides a delicate balance of constantly changing hues, all of which remain nameless except for the limiting words of our language.

I looked East at first.  The streetlights were almost entirely off by the time my vigil began.  I was curious as to why it began at sunrise rather than at first light.  By sunrise the night has departed and the suspension between day and night lost.  At first light until sunrise there is a glorious tension, an ancient chemistry as darkness departs. 

A squadron of nine cormorants flew north past the Shotwell tower, having risen like fighter jets from the river below.  It reminded me of the music of dawn, of blackbird’s song, cooing pigeons, the cawking crows and the melancholic gulls, all of which I could hear in the air around me.

There was never a true stillness.  If I fixed my eyes on a distant building, with empty streets filling my vision, soon enough birds would be on their missions.  If aliens visited at this moment they would perhaps think birds were the main species.

In the distance I could see Hull Prison which, in the pale light, looked more like a grand chateau than a place of incarceration.  I thought of the prisoners waking and staring out in cells not much larger than the space I was standing in and was glad that I had the freedom to leave.  And then I wondered how little I could live with.  A bed, books, maybe something to write with, and a radio.

I’d watched my partner begin her vigil the previous evening from a bench in the gardens below.  As she made her way along the walkway, followed a few paces behind by her Companion, I was reminded of a gaoler escorting a prisoner to their cell.  It was a strange imprisonment and I was struck by the fact that someone would be standing in that box twice a day for a year.  An astonishing thing.

Looking West, I looked down and witnessed a moment of terrible theatre.  A man was lying in the road, as if dead.  Another man had stopped his work van and had come over to help.  The workman tentatively lifted his arm a few times and prodded him.  After a few minutes the sprawled figure came round and got unsteadily to his feet and staggered off.

His Good Samaritan collected items from the road.  A phone, a wallet and tried to give them back.  The victim seemed unaware of this and just carried on.  The helper tried to push the things into pockets and gave up, driving away eventually.  I watched as the staggering man came down the College path and tried to pass through a window.  He was lost in his own head, inhabiting a different world to us.

Silver broke the clouds to the East.  I’d thought of my identity, my being born here and then moved to the North West at the age of eight.  The dusky horizon brought me solace.  I was OK to be in my world.