We tiptoe through the stories
No traces left behind
Old premonition created the risk
Silently contain the catastrophe
Old places hide their evil
Wrapped in silence, a strange kind of peace
We can scan the bones they left behind
Build new cases, new theories
Were they like us, how old are the bones?
What can we learn from those hidden sorrows,
left unburied with no names?
no one to say they cared, they were loved
How can we ever know the true story
Written in bone?
© Anita Dawes 2021