Crematorium Decorum

This poem is an observation of how people use established convention to guide them through difficult times. Its a sort of "Its always done this way" guide to funerals"

Crematorium Decorum

Until the black flotilla docks

It’s considered polite

To shiver resolutely in the drizzle

An acceptable penance

For being overlooked again

 

A wash of murmuring

Brings us to attention

Hands folded at the front

Heads bowed slightly

Respecting the departed and the weather

 

At the undertakers solemn nod

There’s a harmonious door opening

A choreographed release

Of those at centre-stage

A tide of unexploded grief

 

The hearse gives up its load

To be lofted unsteadily

Shouldered by novice bearers

An amateur guard of honour 

Unexpected wards of the lost 

 

Inside the rows fill

With increasing shades of sadness

The darkest the nearest

A grim meritocracy

Unwelcome, unanticipated

 

Sobbed and spoken eulogies

Neatly sandwiched

Between best loved music

Attempt an abbreviation

Of the years

 

A final procession of sorrow

Files outside where

Embraces and handshakes

Begin to break the spell

Of the crematorium's decorum