The Golden Hour
There is a golden hour when the colour of light is like a beautifully soft rose velvet shot through with slender gold filaments, muted with time. It reminds me of something I’ve seen in a painting, but I can’t remember where.
It touches the landscape in the time before dusk. There is still light enough to be called day, but has the faded sepia tone suggesting age. The hours are older now, and biding their last strength for the spectacular burst of sunset.
There is a beautifully limbed tree in view from my kitchen window. The gilded rose of light brushes softly down one side of its trunk and drapes itself in a languid puddle on the ground. Rows of tiny willows marching along behind wear golden crowns, their scraggly heads given borrowed majesty.
With the light comes a beckoning, a soft call to be still, to absorb this gift of gentle beauty. To me it is like the footprint left behind when God walks through His garden in the quiet time of the day.