Dial “D” for Dead

Do they even
With their WLAN
Sitting beside
The fresh melded earth
Talk or text
The dead
They miss?
I wondered
As I whiled
Within the walls
Of the weary
And the lost
Beneath the stones
The grass
The wilted flowers
For fresh they could
No longer ask.
Or was it that
The whispering wind
The sombre sun
Upon that soil
That told those youth
I counted six
To touch their screens
And feel their hearts
If flowers for this grave
Were still worth
Their toil.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..