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...blood red rain...



Red, it was: a dustfall, underwater...

And, for hundreds of millions of years, it rained on; the seas gently rusting...like some heavy industry abandoned to those monstrous tides upthrust by a moon so much closer, seemingly engulfing skies yet to be blue.

All this had happened in the endless years before death - life content merely to divide forever, but still...spewing out the oxygen that would spell their ruin once the iron all rusted out...

And the sediments still stand, today...amidst the great north-west - kilometres thick, and knotted by the blooms that drove their deposition.

You can go there - walking beyond the trees of the east, and the hard rock desert centres - up...on to the ancient Pilbara plateau & into the Hamersleys, where the blood red rain fell like it would never end...and stones, split square like some even more ruinous Indus outpost where the trains never ran; the flat-bottomed gorges our abandoned streets, winding in amidst the decayed rust-red outposts of a building before history.

Above, spinifex shelters the humble - repelling more substantial invaders - whilst twisted eucalypts tear at rocks...in search of buried treasure. The North Pole is there, by some quirk of visitation.

Yet here...of all places, where the first greens turned red with time, bulbous growths adorn the ridge-line: marking our ancestral pact with time and death, corrosion and complexity...and that storied fall from immortality to all-too-mortal life.


John Henry Calvinist