Star

By Maxim Griffin.

Can’t sleep – half two and still humid – you make coffee as quietly as possible – and take a nosey out the back door – it’s fresher outside – clear too – really clear – a satellite traces south to north right through Canis Minor – that settles it – five minutes later you are heading out – a note to the family on the table – ‘gone for stars, back before sixish, then take dog out’ – you know the perfect spot – it’s not far – fifteen minutes and you’re there – not even three.

A dark place – somewhere away from ring roads and settlements – a view to the horizon – east is best – not so much light pollution – in winter Orion rules the sky but in summer Venus is our absolute – she’s just coming up with Jupiter an hour or so behind – Saturn’s way up over the south, but it’s a little hazy that way.

Do not gaze at stars, gazing sounds weak, twee even, leave tweeness for the enemy – stare them out – stars are vast and distant and a very long time ago and they are indifferent to your attention – you are compelled to look, you have brought binoculars – the colossal violence of the stellar universe is comforting – you draw focus on Aldebaran which is due east and a hand’s width above the horizon – 67 light years away, 393,867,900,003,302 miles, give or take – as the crow flies Lincoln cathedral is only 12 miles away, but there is a hill in between you and there so you cannot be sure if it really exists – a glittering line of far off streetlights tells you that, at least in this moment, Skegness exists.

Exploring astronomy
Pick a constellation – a favourite asterism – the Summer Triangle is, from your position, pointing towards the intertidal marshland at the lips of the river Humber – you know their names – Altair, Deneb, Vega – and over there to the right is Cappella – Cappella used to be the brightest star in the night sky, but that was back when homo sapiens were used getting started – the stars and their positions should be part of our greater geography, ignorance of such things should be frowned up.

You’ve looked up local astronomy groups – there are several – actual observatories in Cleethorpes and Lincoln – and there’s a group that meets on a red hill during the new moon (this has a mysterious appeal) – there’s a rumour that there’s a fellow out near Austen Fen who built a tiny radio telescope in his shed – this goes with the territory – astronomy draws out the quiet mavericks – back in the day you knew a man who built a telescope out of things from the tip – lenses as big as a dinner plate that he’d ground by hand from salvaged glass – strange objects with seemingly occult properties.

Look – Venus is here – if you squint you can just make out her phase – waning, probably – you reach for the old, inherited binoculars you keep in your knapsack – you find an object to lean on and steady your aim with full focus as tight as you can – a wobbling dot – you slow yourself down, breathe deeply – these binoculars are meant for birds not planets but they do the job, more or less – there – Venus in crescent – it wobbles away – pigeons turn on, blackbirds begin to sing.

Closer to four – Jupiter should be up by now – should be over there – Venus is up over the houses now – every morning this season you’ve watched her roll up the roof angles – these early starts have become part of the ritual of the day – when the conditions are right you get out, solo or with the dog – if it’s overcast or rainy, you potter in the kitchen and get a head start on everything – thick coffee and Radio 3 playing very low through a tiny shortwave radio you use solely for that purpose – look – there – Jupiter is coming through the trees – can’t see the Seven Sisters though – getting too light – they’re always sharper in winter – we’ll be there soon enough.

Night into day
There are night shining clouds just visible far out on the edge of the North Sea – stratospheric wisps that are high enough to carry daylight over the horizon – Venus and Jupiter are beginning to diminish – you pour some coffee into the lid of a bashed up metal flask – the coffee is fresh enough to not have taken on the flavour of the steel yet – hot little sips – blow to cool – hot little sips – a pair of bats are on patrol – there are blackberries – a heap of brambles over to your left – most have gone or withered on the vine – you find a couple of juicy feeling ones – pick one – it falls apart as you do so – purple fingers – sweet, funky even, perhaps slightly fermented – there’s a spider on the back of your hand – you gingerly return it to the leaves – look – brighter still, you wipe the stickiness on the sleeve of your jumper – it needed a wash anyway.

There’s a gearshift in birdsong in the moments before sunrise – an intensity, a crescendo – the morning jets from America take on the look of a meteor shower – red trails heading east – you climb on top of a five bar gate – the sky is orange now – there – you squint – our star arrives – the horizon shimmers – you squint – you don’t have long to look at it – a minute or two while it’s still low to behold the god star – you list all the names of the sun – it is polite to know them – Ra, Aten, Helios, Sol, Ba’al, Surya, Apollo – on and on – night has become day – this is perhaps the oldest magic – and it never gets stale – you close your eyes, a little dazzled – you’re casting a long shadow – what time is it? half-five – good – time to get back and get things rolling – make some coffee, make a drawing, take the dog out – there’s a mist coming off the river – it’ll be good to walk through it before the sun burns it away.

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