THROUGH THE BEVELLED GLASS

the bones of the long gone dead
feel us walk across their forgotten graves

they have been stripped of all time
unaware of days that have come to pass

since last they laughed
or felt grass beneath their toes

they long to gaze at the stars
feel rain upon their faces

wish some archaeologists
would release them from this

all too heavy soil so they could feel
the sunlight of another century

warm their bones
give them names again

even if they are only guesses
at who they have been

femur speaks to femur
skull to skull

the stars are crystal
clear this December eve's

glinting through the bevelled glass
window of the local museum