More active air, a matutinal distant cock, ecclesiastical clocks at various points, avine music, the isolated tread of an early wayfarer, the visible diffusion of the light of an invisible luminous body, the first golden limb of the resurgent sun perceptible low on the horizon.
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)
Asking the breezes to send greetings to a time when women stitched those white and gold swans in treasured embroidery that became heirlooms, before they fled along broad rivers towards the sea where white soot-stained swans were nesting in the burnt marshes.
(Alexis Wright, The Swan Book, ‘Owls in the grass’)
Seen from a distance, against the background of crumbling grey plaster, they look like a rich and colorful palette, like a painting of tasteful and imaginative composition. Moreover, the shopkeeper changes the layout of the colors from day to day: Brown dates lie beside pastel pistachios and green olives—and the next day white almonds have taken the place of the fleshy dates and a pile of pepper pods is burning scarlet where there had been golden millet.
(Ryszard Kapuściński, ‘The dead flame’, Shah of Shahs)