Lockdown Funeral (RIP Bobo)

She didn't die of Corona. No,
an outsider stands accused
of sullying September romance
with Springtime spousal abuse.

Household groups line the Larkman.
The cortege glides glumly past.
To Norfolk April's big blue, blackfeathered
nags add somber cockney class.

Some mourners are still in pyjamas.
And I can smell a condolent joint.
But their respects, they're no less sincere;
presence or absence here the point.

Workingclass communities 
don't know what social distancing means.
She died in the pursuit of closeness,
but not from Covid-19.