Here are the women,
written in the earth.
A fan of bones; vertebrae like corks,
their message delicately
inscribed by herringbone fingers.
At Kingshill North her knees are bent tenderly to chest.
A warm slope and a red pot, honouring
a tooth-sore, bronze-age traveller.
And three thousand years away
in the next gallery,
her Anglo-Saxon sister
leaves traces of her
in the corrosion
of metal objects.
Their speaking bones are whispering to us.
I see you.
I am listening,