by T.P. Wilkinson / May 14th, 2017 Do they evenWith their WLANSitting besideThe fresh melded earthTalk or textThe deadThey miss?I wonderedAs I whiledWithin the wallsOf the wearyAnd the lostBeneath the stonesThe grassThe wilted flowersFor fresh they couldNo longer ask.Or was it thatThe whispering windThe sombre sunUpon that soilThat told those youthI counted sixTo touch their … Continue reading Dial “D” for Dead