Ian Maxton
And then it will be as if you have just awoken from a strange dream.
~*~
Snow falling across the dark refracts the globes of streetlamps into halos. There are no other lights. There is only the sound of snow on snow on snow.
~*~
Abraham Ortelius noted that the continents seemed once to have fit together. It is a matter of some speculation whether they can ever be fitted back. Whether the land can be returned to the people. The people returned to one another at last.
~*~
A pink sky. A frozen river. An ancient forest. A winding road.
~*~
The city is full but not crowded. Cats leap between buildings. There are no lines and the bread is free. A woman calls to you. You do not recognize her at first but then –
~*~
The factory whistle blows. The workers emerge into the cold.
Let us ask what they have done today.
We have worked our chosen hours for our own benefit and those of our comrades.
Let us ask why they are leaving.
Work is at its end. Now, we will rest.
~*~
A history of hell: it is beneath our feet; it is among us; it is behind us. It has frozen over.
~*~
There is nothing that you have seen that will not be mended.
The holes in your coat will be closed.
~*~
A dream – a dream – a dream – that we will wake to.
~*~
Until then revolution.
Ian Maxton is a communist writer and critic. He is an associate editor at Passages North and a contributor at Spectrum Culture. His work has appeared in Brevity, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Permafrost, and Cease, Cows.
