Aurum Tempore

Aurum Tempore

Photographers call it the golden hour. In the last hour of sunlight before the day draws to a close, light is soft and diffuse. Shadows are no longer pinned darkly to the ground, no longer silhouettes. The bodies finally go, and shadows are free to leach into the sky, the grass and the corners of photographs. It's funny that only photographers seem to have picked up on the phenomenon, at least to the extent that they have defined it and categorized it and branded it with the jargon of their profession. However, anyone who has ever taken a walk at five o'clock on a Sunday afternoon knows exactly what the golden hour is.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, there is a bench of smooth stone, dulled a golden green by endless days of ever changing weather. Small plants grow at the foot; pink and purple wildflowers pop their heads up. The bench leans, like it cannot be bothered to stand up, like an old man who rheumatism has defeated when all the wars could not. Just like an old man, the bench is solid, reassuring. It is quite safe to fall asleep on; no rabbit holes shall appear. In spite of that, it would be a very lethargic Alice to fall asleep during these penultimate moments of daylight.

There is a forest. Not a wood. There are no scruffy palmettos and undignified pines here. No, this is a proper forest, cedar and cypress and maple and oak all politely mingling between stretches of viridian turf. Spanish moss hangs like criminals of old, feet and tendrils dancing on the wind to a grim fandango that just, perhaps luckily, escapes us. Occasionally, a squirrel will enter the forest, but the grandeur and the sense of time, time, ineffable time weigh it down. The squirrel is a lighthearted creature, and this is not a frivolous place.

Looking outwards, there is a field. It appears flat. Appearances can be deceiving. If we left the forest, we would see small dips and pockets of clover and dandelions. But clover and dandelions have no place in the forest. We stay.

There is water. But again, a lake cannot intrude upon the solitude of this place. Volatile by nature, water has no place with these silent sentinels, the cedars and oaks and such. Only a fine mist creeps across the field, shrouding the approach of anyone or being. It creates a feeling of being lost, of being shrouded in more than cool water vapour.

The golden sun streams in, bathing everything in its light. The cracks on the bench, the bark on the trees, my hair- they all absorb the aurous light and meld it into a sort of El Dorado. The legend of El Dorado never has satisfactorily resolved itself. Perhaps the conquistadors themselves stumbled onto the ancestor of this forest, years ago. Perhaps it was five o'clock, and they truly believed they had found a city of gold. The city of gold? The forest of dreams�perhaps.

Sometimes I go and sit on the bench. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a dusky tan hound by my side. I sit and listen, listen, listen and watch. The hound feels it too, and does not slumber but lifts his nose to the wind. He scents the wind and the mist, perceiving something from far away or long ago. I sit on the bench with my back against a cedar, a cedar that was once three cedars. Their trunks fuse together to rise into one, a trio of sorts, to share the sun. Supporting me, the tri-trunked tree waits as well. I sit and sit, alone with the hound, waiting for something that does not come. Finally, after twenty minutes, or twenty years, or twenty eons, at a sound from the dog, I rise. We leave the forest, the golden sun slipping away, darkening the earth in an instant. The trees look black with the sun behind them, and then are no more. I know the trees are still there, like great ships, with the Spanish moss making sails in their branches, but the glamour of the forest is gone for the day. The golden hour is over, and whatever we were waiting for did not, has not, come.

Photographers call it the golden hour. They talk of apertures, and alpenglow, and high performance angles. However, when they are out at five o'clock, when they cease to be just a lens and remember the person behind it, they give it a different name. They call it the magic hour, and that is what it is. And if you are ever searching for something that will not, cannot, come, take a walk at five o'clock. Look for a bench, in a forest, across a field, where three trees become one. We will be there, a girl and her dog, and the golden sun.

Reviews

[Misa]

...
for me, this speaks of so many things, so many questions and images. l loved the mix of short & long sentences here - usually, to me, the use of 2 shorter sentences - like the paragraph about the field - ends up making the piece feel frantic, full of emotions. Usually too full, if l'm honest. for some reason, though, l think this worked out - perhaps because the sentences themselves were simple description, but you carry this style of writing quite well. to be honest with you, l'm not sure what l'd call it, actually, but l loved it. the thought you put into describing the forest, and giving us the feeling of magic, of power - it worked. well, actually. very nicely written, and lovely subject. love the way you brought us back to the beginning, too.