Masks of grief

 

Inside the chapel they stare back at me, blankly

eerily in alien unison

unrecognisable, camouflaged

thirty faceless faces incognito

 

Some are shrouded in blue, antiseptic in appearance

others are black in a practical, washable material

occasionally there’s a soft bandana or a patterned attempt at prettiness

painted on the masks of grief

 

We have rules

in these troubled times

you cannot mourn maskless

 

But sometimes, when words have the power to touch hearts

when the crescendo of Elgar’s Nimrod evokes a united poignancy

when poetry weaves its way deep into the soul

and memories herald a bittersweet comfort, momentarily

the tears burn and the masks of grief are damp 

and left hanging