The blue shade of fig trees is a memory of water.
(Gail Jones, ‘Turnings and overturnings in Glebe’, Sydney Review of Books, 9 Feb. 2018)
The graceful wild clematis festooned the shrubbery along the creeks with great wreaths of magnificent white bloom, which loaded every breeze with perfume; the pretty bright green senna shrubs along the river-banks were decked in blossoms which rivalled the deep blue of the sky in brilliance; the magpies built their nests in the tall gum-trees, and savagely attacked unwary travellers who ventured too near their domain; the horses were rolling fat, and invited one to get on their satin backs and have a gallop; the cry of the leather-heads was heard in the orchard as the cherry season approached.
(Miles Franklin, My Brilliant Career, ch. 12)
The platform Hugo spoke from was meant to be outside the Fitzgerald Hotel, formerly Tattersall’s. The historical bin on the street gave a spiel on it, but the hotel was nowhere to be seen. Then I realised it’d been demolished a few years ago; the patch of green grass marked its spot.
(Nathan Hobby, ‘Research trip to Northam’)
Daisy closed the magazine, added it to the pile of others on the broad table beside the bed, smoothed her mother’s rug, patted the pillows, patted her hands, kissed her lightly and left the room, taking the tray on which the tea had gone cold in the silver teapot, and where the delicate cress sandwiches lay almost untouched on the delicate green plate.
She sat in the nearby sunroom, looking out across the tops of two old apple trees that were busy with white blossom.
(Carmel Bird, ‘Euthanasia and the good butler’)
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)
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)
In the first exuberance of liberation, I became a naïve realist and rejoiced in the thought that grass is really green, in spite of the adverse opinion of all philosophers from Locke onwards.
(Bertrand Russell, My Philosophical Development, ch. 5)