I pictured a shaggy lumbering creature with claws and fangs and a malicious green light in its eyes.
(Bruce Chatwin, In Patagonia, ch. 1)
The memorable image of butterflies dying to become brown leaves evokes both our sense of being late to experience―of missing out―as well as the limits placed on our ability to fully comprehend experience.
(Darius Sepehri, ‘Judith Wright’s The Shadow of Fire and making the ghazal appropriate for Australia’, Southerly 76.3)
‘…Hey, you know something, it’ll only drink out of a red cup. They like anything red.’
‘You got anything red on you?’
‘Yeah,’ Rob said, pulling out a red bandanna. ‘This.’
‘Give us it,’ Jimmy said. He broke off a piece of wood and tied the handkerchief around it. ‘Now, when I lob this near the old goanna we drop and run—get it?’
(Randolph Stow, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea, 16)
They picked their way through the green bog and stood in the cottage. Through the empty windows swallows swooped to and from their brown mud nests.
Rabbits thronged to the dams at sundown, and Ernest Maplestead trapped them with fences. The rounded furry bodies milled in the traps, and the children shouted. ‘I want a black one,’ Rob cried; and they gave him a black one, which scratched him.
(Randolph Stow, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea, 4)
Through dismal ironbark forests that looked as black by night as if all the tree-trunks were cast-iron and the leaves gun-metal. The night wasn’t as dark as it might have been, but now and again there was a storm, and the whole sky turned as black as a wolf’s throat, as father used to say.
(Rolf Boldrewood, Robbery Under Arms, 20)
She tells the story of a woman, Tin Hinan, a fugitive princess born in the fourth century of the Common Era, who flees the coast on a white camel with only women at her side.
(Michelle Hamadache, ‘A thousand tiny fettered steps’, Southerly)