A Village Funeral in the time of COVID-19 

Today I stood, stock still
In a country lane
Amidst a gathering of villagers
Scattered like tombstones
Between the hedgerows.

Muted acknowledgements at first
Filled the unsocial distance between us –
No felt soft funereal murmurings could slip
From mouth to ear
Here

So with voices somewhat raised
Above that which might be considered,
In such circumstances, polite
We ventured to bridge the gaps

With comforting banalities and easy chat
That criss-crossed the thoroughfare
Like airplane trails in the sky
Or railway tracks around a city exchange.
Strange

Winged words, bumped mid-air and mingled –
Unintelligible from afar no doubt –
Stitching together the corpse-length space between,
Before the twofold sadness crept
Around the curve and through the dip.

The hearse, black, smooth, fit for purpose
Though not much else
Not that I expected horses…but this?
No morbid elegance here, no mystery
No history.

We scattered souls moved aside
That it might pass and come to rest
Before the narrow church path
Hard pressed by grief and joy  
Since heaven knows when. 

They don’t do funerals like they once did do they?
Polyester suits that spark in the sun
Atop unpolished shoes give little succour
To those who note such things

The Ford tailgate lifted high, a delivery van
Nothing more, and from within
Out slid the parcelled remains,
On time, as promised.

No shouldering the load today
Instead a chrome collapsible gurney
As out of place as one might imagine
Was rubber rolled beneath.

I noticed then
The unexpected shape of the coffin
For upon the lid, usurping flowers
Sat a small box, somehow attached
And crafted to match so that the whole
Was as one

As one…but a twofold sadness
Husband and wife, their bonds broken
With little warning. Fleeting fevered farewells
Allowed no backward glance as they crossed the threshold
The door catch dropped by other hands
The key pot left empty.

He was cremated
She to be buried
And so, box upon box,
His ashes cradled in her ashen arms
Were borne to the grave
Observed by the few

Later, I stood outside their cottage
Its pockets still crammed with life
And in the garden
Roses stood ready to bloom.

© Garth Bardsley Coulston 2020