- He sees it in raw April weather, a rinsed blue sky with smudges of cloud, ice-white, bruise-grey, fawn.
- Spring winds flow through the streets like weightless water. The blued air of April. The trees tremble, their wet black branches powdered with puffs of green. A strong gust pummels the window-panes, making them shiver and throw off lances of light.
- Reclining on a strew of pillows in the morning's plum-blue twilight.
- Through gaps in the hedge he catches glimpses of gorse bushes yellowy aflame on the low hillsides, and in the hollows there are lingering blurs of morning mist.
- I am admiring the gorse blossom: it is truly glorious, a froth of buttery gold over the hillsides and along the hedgerows.
- She recalls the dampish light, the smells of moss and musty water, the sunlight a spiked glare of white gold and a swarm of tiny, translucent flies busily weaving an invisible design above the water of the well.
- Outside, the air has turned to the colour of inky water.
- It's long past noon and a hazy stillness has settled over the fields. The trees stand seething in the heat. The air is grey-blue and lax. Everything shimmers.
- From the shaded within, all that is without the high awning of glass, the trees, the sunlight, that broad strip of cerulean sky seems a raucous carnival.
- When Adam cuts into the chicken a sigh of steam escapes from the moist aperture between singed skin and moistly creamy flesh.
