Burying them

They are burying them

in body bags—packed all

in neat rows—and covering

them with earth, so that 

they are out of sight, but

not out of mind, in death’s

cradle of endless time.


They are not bringing them

home for homeless they

now be—stateless aliens

encamped beneath the 

dank earth, victims all of 

an invisible swift savagery, 

that sees nothing beyond biology.


They are entombed in plastic

that shall remain when all else

is gone—a symbol of humanity—

as planet earth takes back its own, 

and steals the memories of what 

had been, and dissolves it all 

with the rotting worm of time.


They are sorting them—

numbered, tagged, itemised—

loading them in trucks,

burying them in fields

like the wars to end all wars;

placing them in neat rows 

like in Flanders Fields—

but there are no guns

or shells, just the thud

of flesh extinguished 

on silent waiting earth.


There be no memorials,

no national mourning days.


Who shall remember them?

How soon shalt we forget?


In memory of all those buried in mass graves from COVID-19