He lies in the sun
like a sheep in its wool,
time has trickled into a placid pool...

he's come here
long after he was meant to
and everyone's gone -
or he's too early
by a thousand years, or more

he presses down on the prickly grass,
writing, not bothering to cross out,
time has trickled into a placid pool
and in that stillness so green and cool
there's only... the school

Bell clanging,
Clanging...

he drifts back to lessons
like a ghost in a dream,
and glances back,
as if to prove he exists,
at his flattened shape in the grass