The blue hour
 
Monday, 12 February 2018

The blue hour


The blue hour really lasts no more than a few minutes. It's that moment in which night fades into day and radiates the cold, almost indigo light of fairytales, suspended between dreams and reality. Your senses alert you that day is coming. You can smell it: night has the smell of things that are unravelling, it smells of earth, dead leaves and musk; the blue hour has a delicate odour, of fresh grass, dew and flowers that is never so intense at any other time of day. You feel it on your skin: a veil of dew softly coats the grass, trees, the road and the cyclists’ shoulders. You hear it: the nightime birds have already gone to sleep, others await the first light to make themselves heard: even the Eroica riders instinctively fall silent, all you can hear is the sound of the wheels swishing by on the white roads. Spirits and fears seem to take on new life, the surrounding nature seems to hold its breath, unsure whether to remain in the gloom or open up to the new day. The tension is palpable, the atmosphere electric, our perceptions amplified. But it is just for a moment: there in the distance, towards the east is Venus, the morning star. And soon afterwards, not quite as bright, Saturn appears. Here comes the first blade of light on the horizon: dawn - the golden hour - is on its way. It is the sign that day has won the battle against night. The shadows disperse, contours take shape, all of the parts make up a whole again, you breathe the vital breath of the world. The chafinch, goldfinch and sparrow start singing again. The cyclists start chatting again, the turning of the wheels is rhythmic, smiles return and brakes begin to screech. 

Elena Borrone