GR translation: nacreous wrinkling

[Mike Jing]

V471.5-20     Alone, kneeling on the painted steel, like her mother she
knows how horror will come when the afternoon is brightest. And like
Margherita, she has her worst visions in black and white. Each day she
feels closer to the edge of something. She dreams often of the same
journey: a passage by train, between two well-known cities, lit by that
same nacreous wrinkling the films use to suggest rain out a window. In a
Pullman, dictating her story. She feels able at last to tell of a personal
horror, tell it clearly in a way others can share. That may keep it from
taking her past the edge, into the silver-salt dark closing ponderably slow
at her mind’s flank . . . when she was growing out her fringes, in dark
rooms her own unaccustomed hair, beside her eyes, would loom like a
presence. . . . In her ruined towers now the bells gong back and forth in
the wind. Frayed ropes dangle or slap where her brown hoods no longer glide
above the stone. Her wind keeps even dust away. It is old daylight: late,
and cold. Horror in the brightest how of afternoon . . . sails on the sea
too small and distant to matter . . . water too steel and cold. . . .

What is this "nacreous wrinkling" exactly?
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