We both sat atop a small grey pony with our faces, chubby, smiling at the camera. My hair was as rust-red as it’s ever been and my brother’s was still blond.
(Alice Bishop, ‘Wyenondable ashes’, Southerly 75.1)
The village men with wives & girlfriends in their own excited scrums opposite them, swallow great tankards of the rust-gold brew, on-the-house, as Landlord D’Arcy enthusiastically proffers.
(Kris Hemensley, Down Under)
She brushed her hair on the front step looking out through the dripping grey branches, over the rust-brown bracken, to the cold grey sea.
(Peter Carey, Oscar & Lucinda, ch. 3)
“To the women
of America…”—no, make it to the women everywhere: “banish the black, burn the blue, and bury the beige! From now on
Think pink! think pink! when you shop for summer clothes.
Think pink! think pink! if you want that quel-que chose.
Red is dead, blue is through,
Green’s obscene, brown’s taboo.
And there is not the slightest excuse for plum or puce
Think pink! forget that Dior says black and rust.
(Roger Edens, Think Pink!)