Victoria and Elizabeth, Ada and Phyllis

swoop in from the ends of the city to marvel

at the newly unearthed find. The tunnel

has seen it all before. It yawns, and at its open mouth

these people have materialised like words

it has just spoken, a speech balloon

that blossoms out of darkness. The tongue

is black and can only stutter, starless,

I lived on your street, this baby fed at my breast.

We had names, we sat where you sit to drink and eat.

Between the City and the pit, the builders

and the diggers are speechless, staring into

no-man’s land, its accidental inhabitants

written out in rows. The earth knows

the world is many-layered and must be used

and used again. It throws a blanket over them,

but we are the ones who are shivering.

We remember their passing as if it were our own.

We will always be aware of them

coming and going in our neighbourhood.

They are with us, hurrying

to the market, or standing side by side