The longer you dig, the further they burrow, these London bones.

Brittle and smooth, bleached by the tides, they rattle with every pull and heave. 

They float on the surface of the swollen river, exoskeletons given to the air, just beyond reach.

Unable to support motion, they drift with the currents instead, choking their spent stories down in the mud, until a tug draws them back to the light, sputtering, tattered and broken.

Mute runes, your discarded meaning will come alight again once pieced back together by fingers dirty from the digging.