It is a raw windy April day
As the small band of mourners make their way
To the opened grave on the hill in Calvary.

Funeral services had, of necessity, been limited,
Performed by a mortuary assistant
dressed like an ICU nurse.

He had worked quickly
In constant dread of the possibility
That he too would become infected.

Now, the handful of survivors
With roses in gloved hands
Listen to the muffled words of prayer
From the masked padre.

It is a horrible lonely death
The virus brings.
Gasping, like a fish on a barren shore
No hand to hold for comfort.

The Priest finished as quick as he could.
He spoke his words of Heaven’s promise.
Fearful, that one of these few here
Might carry some trace of the infection.

Later, the essential workers will come
And fill the hole where he has been laid.
There he will remain in  joyful hope
Until the day of resurrection.