Lost Words by Jennifer Copley
the dead wait for water,
for someone to unbury them,
hold them,
steady them while they drink.
Here in this graveyard,
they don't want to rest in peace,
they want to be heard.
Plots have a hungry look,
headstones are tilted,
scoured by dry wind.
There are no flowers,
the grass is dead,
but underneath, trying to get through,
words are murmuring:
"We're dry as ditchwater,
we'd love a cup of tea to warm our cockles.
Not even melted snow has trickled down to us.
Dig us up, run us under the tap,
let us tell what we have seen.
We only can describe it.
Worms have not eaten us.
Uncrease us like maps,
let us show you where we have been."