The oceans were a dreaming egg-shell blue, the countries watery pastel shades of biscuit and eau de nil and faint peach blush
(Carmel Bird, ‘Tasmanian memoir of WW2’)
Sa crinière rose, ses lunettes bordées de noir et son sweat-shirt orange vif barré d’un grand «Warzaw» hantent depuis un peu plus d’une semaine les médias du monde entier.
(«Sans Cambridge Analytica, il n’y aurait pas eu de Brexit» – Libération )
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!
With cattle and goats stripping these dunes of their spinifex cover, the soil had begun drifting years ago; and the station area had long since turned into a light orange-brown sea of soft and very heavy sand.
(T. G. H. Strehlow, Journey to Horseshoe Bend)
oh how small the world is!
you’re just moving
from one shore of the Pacific to the other
stones are the same stones
the moon is the same moon
as is the orange melancholy of sycamore leaves
(Zahra Taheri, ‘Rainless may’, tr. Bijan Mottahedeh, Southerly 76.3)
The germ of the story was this image of an orange tent in the bush that just came to me, and I started thinking about what happened to the campers, where are they?
(Damien Power, quoted by Karl Quinn, ‛Under a dark sky’, Spectrum, Sat. 19 Aug. 2017)