The thunderhead was dirty black, streaked with billows of grey. It rolled and boiled as it climbed into the clear blue day, casting a vast shadow on the hills beyond.
(Andrew McGahan, The White Earth, prologue)
When the money has been pegged to the blue sky and the clouds and time to the earth, I will then take all of the grey cubicle dividers from the world’s financial planning offices and the money-moving offices of every middleman and middlewoman, and I will carve them into geometric shapes and make a labyrinth in the red centre of the outback.
(Sue Stevenson, ‘The cloud of undoing’, Southerly, 76.1)
The sky grew blacker and blacker. The wind began to whistle and cry till I could almost swear I heard someone singing out for help. Nulla Mountain was as black as your hat, and a kind of curious feeling crept over me, I hardly knew why, as if something was going to happen, I didn’t know what.
(Rolf Boldrewood, Robbery Under Arms, 37)
We should not be interrogated about the exact words used in a conversation or the precise colour of the sky on any particular day. Our best efforts may turn up violet, when our mother insists on vermillion.
(Kristina Olsson, ‘On writing Boy, Lost’, Southerly 75.2)
During monsoon weather in Manila, the skies turn a brackish grey and the southwest winds blowing from the Pacific turn potted palmeras, trees that are not quite trees, irregularly dotting the center island of Emerald Avenue, into fluttering fronds, like hands desperately calming the beating heart of a nervous bride.
(Andrea Pasion-Flores, ‘Love in Mini Stops’, Contrappasso 8)