NOT TILL THE RED FOG RISES

I recall from my days in the north that unexpected and beguiling sensation of waking and rising to find the whole world dusted with snow. Every surface touched. A layer of spotless, untouched whiteness gracing each living thing out there beyond the pane. Virginal veil.

It happens only rarely here where we live now but we have its evil twin. Re-imagine your surprise when everything, on your rising, is seen through a haze of red dust that clings to the windows. You go outside and each plant has red leaves. Every surface lies shrouded beneath a layer of incredibly fine dust almost the colour of terracotta. No dream this but nightmare territory. Touch it and it smears your fingers and that touched. You brush against something and your clothes are red and dusty. A damp cloth produces a red mud that clings like the proverbial shit to a blanket. A broom raises a cloud of lung choking micro-particles.

This, my friends, is the aftermath of the red rain. And this is how we find our lives today.