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

on the platform, holding hands,
hoping we will turn and say their names.

They have been here all this time,
waiting for our train.