The blue shade of fig trees is a memory of water.
(Gail Jones, ‘Turnings and overturnings in Glebe’, Sydney Review of Books, 9 Feb. 2018)
You can see that she was fond of what she saw,
the way a she-oak’s grey will break apart
to gold and purple; brown rocks
cluttering the foreground.
She made no concession
to nostalgia’s green longing –
her native grass is bleached of colour,
bush and distant ranges’ varying mauves
mark out shade’s intensity; she understood
a landscape reticent about its beauty
and painted what her eye saw.
My body ran around in the southern sunlight but my inner world had subtler colours…the numberless greens of Ireland, which seemed to me inhabited solely by poets plucking harps, heroes lordily cutting off each other’s heads and veiled ladies sitting on the ground keening.
(P. L. Travers, What the Bee Knows, quoted by S. Pope, Southerly 77.1)
Nearer he draws to the gum-tree scrubby horizon, turns the clouds to orange, scarlet, silver flame, gold! Down, down he goes. The gorgeous, garish splendour of sunset pageantry flames out; the long shadows eagerly cover all; the kookaburras laugh their merry mocking good-night; the clouds fade to turquoise, green, and grey; the stars peep shyly out; the soft call of the mopoke arises in the gullies!