Jon Thompson
The Dream

Then the country withdrew from
its borders & took refuge in a central

time zone. The time zone was without weather,
without change.

It’s always summer there.
It’s always winter there.

It doesn’t matter.
No one can tell

because the memory
of seasons has been lost.

When you look up
at the sky, it’s no longer

running free; the clouds no longer
hurry home in the evening.

Their stasis, their stillness
is deathly.

Only in dreams
can you feel the gusts of

seasons, a shiver
of happiness, or a shiver

of sadness that comes
to mind slowly, like

from another life.

But no one says, ‘I
wanted something else.’

Or even, ‘I want
something else.’

Round the borders, among the weeds,
red poppies everywhere.