Last Light

As the shadows lengthen and the sun sinks below the horizon we find ourselves in the last light of day. It is a time for reflection, philosophical thinking…a time for writers. This liminal space between day and night offers a particular quiet in which one can become particularly aware of change, the passing of time, being on the cusp of something while in the midst of letting go of what has been.

In the last light the horizon glows with the downed sunlight, colours radiate through the darkening sky…the curtains close and the glow signals that the stars are only moments from appearing. And I have been fortunate to witness the last light in many places around the world…places where the difference between day and night lasts only moments. Blink and you miss the space between the two. Conversely, I’ve lived in Tasmania where in the summertime last light stretches over hours, lengthening the day by bathing the world in pink wisps of luminosity. It’s a writer’s paradise.

Scientifically or astronomically, one may simply say that when the sun begins to drop to 18° below the horizon we fall into several stages of twilight. Civil, nautical and astronomical twilight precede night. Each phase providing an ever-decreasing scattering of light and colour. The French call civil twilight l'heure bleue (the blue hour). Each phase as evocative as the next. (FYI civil twilight means no artificial means of illumination is needed to see things outdoors)

I recall one extraordinary last light. In 2015 we were fortunate, through the ballot, to receive tickets to the 100 year anniversary of the ANZAC landing in Gallipoli. We, approximately 11,000 of us, trooped into ANZAC Cove on the afternoon of the 24th of April. It would be a long day. The day had been mild but the spring evenings on the peninsula were still cold. We settled into two seats in the southern stands and watched fellow Australians and New Zealanders file in. Those who chose the lawn in front of the stage had a great view but given the expected numbers they were not allowed to sit; it was standing room only and they would be there for 14 hours.

The afternoon closed, the temperature dropped, and last light brought a strange hush. It was as if in that pale lustre we collectively remembered for whom we had gathered. In the liminal space, a century ago, those who waited possibly felt trepidation, fear, excitement, hope and camaraderie. I wondered if they looked up to the Turkish night sky and saw in the luminescence that the day that was coming to an end, might be their last. Or did they see the piercing beauty of stars in an uninterrupted darkness and wonder about home? What images were in their heads, hopes in their hearts, entreaties in their prayers? For whom did they make declarations of love in the 'dying of the light'? (Dylan Thomas)

In that silent twilight in 2015 I attempted to put aside my discomfort and coldness to remember the young who fell here, who attempted the impossible, survived whole or broken, those who went home and those who never left and remained buried in Türkiye.

In that space between the sunset and the deep night I did remember them. The 2000 who died on the first day. The 60,000 who fought over the eight-month campaign, the thousands of ANZACs and Ottoman soldiers who died or were wounded. How could we not reflect on the terrible cost of war, the absurd waste of young lives, the pain of those who waited at home? Our own ancestors who fought and did not return. The blue hour stirred many thoughts.

Last light became night.

This is not a blog about ANZAC per se, nor my travel experiences or my newly learned scientific facts about astronomy. It is about the experience afforded us in the moment where the threshold between day and night occurs. It is how we position ourselves on that boundary with one foot in the past and one in what is to come.  For writers, thinkers, philosophers and artists it is a place to capture images and ideas. For all of us perhaps it could be a time of wonder. A time to marvel at the enormity of the planet, the extraordinary balance between light and darkness. A time to put away the worries and embrace restorative rest. A time to hope for better things, greater kindness, expanded knowledge. A time to remember those we have lost, the strength we have gained from having known them and importance of love.

The golden sea its mirror spreads

Beneath the golden skies,

And but a narrow strip between

Of earth and shadow lies.                        Samuel Longfellow