dawn - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The sun rises as a canopy of gold, bright amid the blue, bidding the stars to take their nightly rest. As darkness surrenders, every colour changes from tinges of charcoal to a vibrancy. There are days I wonder what we give in return for such gifts of divine magic; perhaps it is our love, perhaps we radiate it into space; perhaps that is our connection to creation beyond the borders of our world, our reality. Perhaps inside I too am gold, a bright flame that burns for another kind. For me, that's a thought as warm as any bright new day, one that tickles my mind as much as my heart.
Dawn sent shimmering rays over the placid ocean, bestowing a golden path from the shore to the horizon. Lucille blinked toward the sun that brought her a day she was never promised, yet was glad to see. She let the moment sink in, soothe her from her core right out to where the nascent rays touched her skin. This meant a new beginning was possible and possibilities meant hope.
The dawn came with a musical silence, the soul hearing the melody that the ears could not. A new day had come, new possibilities, a fresh page yet to be written.
Just before dawn, the eastern sky fills with blended tones of rosy pinks and sandy yellows. A subtle way to welcome a new day, a new beginning. Tea in hand, my fingers trace the steam swirling above the warm liquid. The scent of orange spice tickles my nose as I sip in solace and wait. Suddenly, the mighty sun breaches the horizon and the sky explodes with beautiful colors. In that moment, the firmament is more vibrant than any fresh mango or tangerine could ever be. A mere glimpse of heaven that quickly fades into the blue. A gift for the wayward children still exploring the universe in those early hours. Sunlight fills the air, gently kissing the faces of all good things that are wild and free. The peace felt in those fleeting seconds becomes eternal as I draw the deepest breath and lose myself in the morning view.
Child, raise your head, the dawn has come. The sky has softened to a blue and the clouds are blushed like a ripe mango. The air is delicate and cool to kiss our skin with moisture. The sun is peeking over the mountains, each blade of grass already feeling the soft warming rays and growing stronger for the light they receive. Lets walk, lets walk with bare feet over the ground to feel the energy of the Earth as she turns to greet the new day.
The sky glows like a summer peach and the sun is pure gold in the sky. The colours of the foliage return to green and the air warms to an ambient twenty or so. It is the perfect dawn, one to be savoured instead of squandered. Under this radiant beauty I can see the path, uncluttered, ready for another day of travelling to the great city.
The outlines of the houses are becoming clearer and even the leaves on the trees are looking more green than grey, dawn is here for sure. I put Darwin on his feet to let him toddle for a while. He holds two of my fingers and walks in the drunken way such small children do. For a few houses he's just ambling along, happy to be directed. Then he stops cold, a look of slow joy spreading on his face...
Back under the lightening sky that is swallowing it's brilliant freckles too quickly for my liking I cast my eyes for the next target - some sign of a home that had children. This neighbourhood was renown for dinkies, so I'm looking for a minivan- rare around here. To my surprise there's one halfway down and I'm disappointed to realize I can tell what colour it is, the fashionable turquoise of the higher end models. Colours mean dawn has arrived and soon the street will be bathed in daylight...
Only an hour ago the blackness was absolute, but now the mist was visible, silvery. Against this backdrop the trees were silhouettes, still as an oil painting and darker than the ravens. Come mid-morning those infernal birds will be hopping in the branches, waiting for when the collectors haul their carts down the lane.
Castle walls rise out of the darkness, out of the silent charcoal curtain that is the dawn. They are pitted and forlorn, no longer the bastions of protection and glory that they were. Under my fingers they stone is more rough than the callused skin of an old man and it leaves my skin cold, drawing dampness into my bones. It stretches away, disappearing into the black in every direction. The light is barely there, like a feeling that's difficult to get a grasp on. There is a temptation to hunker down here, to stow myself behind a narrow window and peek into the world appearing with the details of a finished canvas. Or else I can follow the river that should lie just beyond. I won't have the cover of darkness, but perhaps the lack of scent and prints to follow will tilt the odds of escape in my favour just enough. How quickly the dream of the runaway becomes a nightmare, but I'd rather be living this version of freedom than decades in the “safety” of the camps.