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.
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!
Bound in green leather, the book looks like a rare first edition with flaking gold writing on the spine and vanilla pages.
(Cassandra Atherton, ‘The live sparrow of translation’, Southerly 76.3)
He watched dustmotes climbing and sliding, gold in the slippery light. Down in the tennis court the windmill clanked in the easterly, and the grey-brown doves roocooed on the tennis court fence.
(Randolph Stow, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea, 3)