In Poverty Gully, there is a library of stone where Ordovician volumes of mauve, ochre
and dove-grey are shelved with their spines pointing north.
(Annie Hunter, ‘Graptolite’, Plumwood Mountain, 6)
The reds and the ochres of the earth surrounding the town can seem like a vast movie set recreating a spacecraft landing in Mars, or a savage ecological blight. I feel my throat tighten with emotion. The red dirt is what our family remembers most. No matter what colour your garment was for any chosen social engagement, you came home red. The colours of this place are foremost, infernally beautiful.
(Tim Rogers, ‛Kalgoorlie’, Detours)
His eyes lingered on the dark-greenish body of a giant cray as Wooreddy gently and lovingly (at least so it seemed to Mangana) placed it on the coals. He watched as the dark shell began to turn a lightish ochre-red.
(Mudrooroo, Doctor Wooreddy’s Prescription for Enduring the Ending of the World)
A hand mirror, half a broken teacup patterned with prancing horses, an empty jam tin, a broad red book. Nothing of any value or use to a mob of wandering clansfolk. He reached down for the book where it lay.
A Bible. As sturdy as firewood in his hand. He turned the damp pages one by one and every page, every column of text, every inch of every surface was inked with arcane circles, spirals, in bloodred ochre. The broken halves of the words hanging between those scrawls were rendered useless.
(Rohan Wilson, The Roving Party)
On February 6th, it was Dacre’s turn to face the inquiry. He carried an ochre briefcase and wore a double-breasted gray suit. He is an imposing man of six feet three, with a ruddy complexion and the thin-lipped glare of a coach. As he hulked into the courtroom, everyone seemed to straighten up. Twitter was less reverent, but no less riveted. “Will Dacre defy his tender years in a vampish red dress?” @ozzfan123 wrote, in the style of the Mail’s celebrity pages.
(Lauren Collins, ‘Mail supremacy’, New Yorker 2 April 2012)