When was the last time you saw the sun rise? When was the last time you stood before the morning’s yawn and waited motionless in the indigo hues of dawn to see the sun rise? When was the last time you saw the sun rise on New Year’s Day?
A bird had been singing just before I woke. Only the voice of one bird. But its persistent chirping echoed through the dark city. There had been a wattle-bird sitting on my balcony the morning before but I really couldn’t tell if it was the same bird singing this morning. There were no other noises. No cars, no sirens, no voices. Nothing. The winds were blowing, though – cool winds, Easterly winds bringing heat from the deserts that would arrive in a day or two. Trees near my home rustled their leaves and branches whenever the gusts blew past. The world was almost dark. A few stars were still visible overhead, remaining fixed and shining. With the coming dawn a luminescence had begun to seep through the dark – there was some light present in the sky, giving it an appearance of a blue drained of its vigour and vibrancy. On the horizon, low in the Eastern horizon, colours formed. There was indigo, white tinged with violet, lightness and darkness. A deep orange pooled from nothing flooding that part of the sky with the intensity of a new day. The New Year was coming. I wanted to go to Kings Park to see the sun rise.
In the short period of time it took me to make a coffee all the colours of the sky changed. I stook near a window that faced out towards the east. There were bands and glows of pastel hues, of pinks, yellows and oranges generated out and dissolving into the dawn. In the city, street lights and office lights all along St Georges Terrace were still visible in the darkness. Silhouettes of buildings and trees were pronounced. Somewhere nearby, a neighbour’s gate had been left unlocked and the wind was persistent in nudging it, bumping it, making it tap and knock against its post needing to be closed tight. In the block of flats opposite me one apartment had its lights on (everything else asleep in the building). I drank my coffee and looked out at the world. I could have seen all this from my bed: sunk down and half-asleep, feeling the morning light enter my room, imagining the black becoming gold, then lifting to Verdelho, feeling the warmth of a waking room fill with sunshine and of being aware of the white light of a new day arriving. Even asleep you can feel the morning move over you. But this was New Year’s Day and I wanted to be engaged with its first sunrise – to go up to Kings Park, to watch the sun rise up over the river and to see it shine out across the city; to be able to remember that moment throughout the coming year (whatever the Fates decided was in store).
Fraser Avenue was the main road that led into Kings Park from the city. It was a long, straight road and from the park’s entrance conveyed a sense of beauty and elegance due the procession of lemon-scented eucalyptus trees that flanked it and rose high towards the sky. I had reached there a little after five (maybe about a quarter-past). It was light and the park was busy. There were cyclists, runners, dog walkers. The morning bus – the 935 from the park to Belmont Forum – was already operating, moving along out of the park towards the New Year. I made my way towards a slope of green grass, Mount Eliza Range, that faced east and out over the city. There were a lot of people already there before me (more than I had expected). They sat on the grass in groups as friends and family. Some leant against their parked cars. Others just stood between the trees facing the coming year. All waiting.
From where I stood it was easy to pinpoint exactly where the sun would appear. Most of the horizon was tainted orange with some overnight clouds clinging to the sky; the ridge of sharp edged buildings between the river and the city were silhouettes of varying heights (some reflected light and blurred images). As the morning breeze blew leaves moved all around me. There was traffic moving on the freeways that drove into, along and past the city centre itself. A train – maybe the first one of the day – climbed over the Narrows Bridge, rising up then gliding down into the maze of track leading towards Elizabeth Quay. And in front of this view an old man in a blue shirt and trousers walked his dog, yanking it back onto a path as it stopped to sniff and search inside one of the bushes adjacent there.
And so we waited. That corner of the horizon, a glowing swirl of orange and yellow would be where the sun rose. The colours were hypnotic to look at, waiting for the first chink of sunlight, the first glimpse of the New Year. My mind wandered. The breeze that blew was cool without being cold. Images entered my mind – just a few hours earlier I had been celebrating the arrival of midnight with friends – the passing of one year to another. It had been a fancy dress party; we all arrived in costume and inevitably in character. We had all shared a meal together, everyone had brought something. We ate as friends, talked as friends and then danced together as the midnight hour approached. There was a balcony and from there we watched fireworks crackle into the night sky above the city. From there you could see the whole of the city – almost touching some of the buildings with their lights, shadow and towering height. Down below we watched people walking alone, in groups, singing, laughing. Taxis and traffic drove along Hay Street and Milligan Street, illuminating the darkness with their headlights on. We celebrated the year that had been and wished each other good luck for the one that was to be.
And still we waited in Kings Park. That corner of the horizon, where a glowing swirl of orange and yellow continued to grow. The colours were hypnotic to look at, eyes willing the first chink of sunlight to give us a glimpse of the New Year. My mind wandered again. Just a week ago I was sat on Cottesloe beach celebrating Christmas Day. It was a clear blue sky. Waves had rolled ashore (out of the stillness, out of the quiet ocean). A faint wind blew cool air from the East. The glare of sunlight grew stronger, bouncing off the brilliant sun-bleached sand.
Despite arriving early – early enough that the sun shone behind the Indiana Tea House casting a giant shadow across the sand making it cool – the beach was busy. The sand had been pockmarked with small dunes of footprints – made worse with a small, black dog chasing seagulls that tried to stand there. People in groups, of friends and families, sat together facing the ocean. People were happy. Some drank fruit juice, or poured glasses of champagne, others shared food. There had been an old man, up near the rocks, who had sat alone in a chair, wearing a hat, reading a book; I remembered him because his chair had been positioned so close to the water’s edge that the legs of the chair had sunk deep into the wet sand and the occasional waves that washed over his feet made his toes dance. That day the ocean had been flat – flat from shore to horizon. There had been a swimmer just beyond the reef splashing in strokes between the patches of blue and aqua green. As ever, the shape of Rottnest Island was fixed straight ahead. A large tanker sat further out. No matter how many times you swam in the Indian Ocean blue it always left you feeling so alive and content. Floating in the shallows I looked back at the beach and saw all the people celebrating Christmas together on the sand.
And here I now stand at Kings Park waiting for the sun to rise. I wait with others, facing east, looking out across the Swan River and Heirisson Island. Light is lifting. The entire sky is thawing from the night, turning into a cool blue. The colours of dawn appear in brevities of being, glowing in oranges and pinks before vanishing. More birds begins to sing. A family of magpies walked across the grass at Mt Eliza Ridge looking for food. Just over the Hills and the Darling Ranges yellow light dances and is alive. The sun will rise there. I think about the last time I saw the sun rise. Years ago – maybe ten – I last saw the sun rise here on a New Year’s Day.
Hints of sunshine glint and coat the side of the city buildings. Only light, not quite sunlight. A lone plane rises up from the land and climbs at an angle. Momentarily it passes in front of the dome of light that sits above the Darling Ranges. The plane turns towards us, aiming to fly overhead, up along the coast, across the Indian Ocean, maybe towards the Middle East or South East Asia. Sunlight touches it smooth body as it moves through the sky. Its engines leave a roar to echo in the empty heavens behind it. The wind continues to blow. Still cool air. Birds chirp and sing. Sky is changing colour. Sky is yellow, is blue, is white. A corona of light is visible. It will emerge there. The sun will rise there.
And then sunlight enters the world. The New Year has arrived. As the first arrow of yellow light fires out from beneath the horizon people clap and cheer in spontaneous unison. A bus stops to watch. Happy New Year. At first a small chink of light, a sunshaft, slowly the sun climbs, a sliver, a quarter, a half, and then the full disc of the sun with its full rainbow of glints, squinting blinding light. A blank canvas. The day begins, the new year stretches out with all its dreams, hopes and promise.
When was the last time you saw the sun rise?
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