I passed by a lych gate today

An entrance to a calm oasis in which to stay,

Beyond in shade of ancient yews

Are stones with names no longer making news.

 

I passed within the lych gate’s sway

A two way portal, threshold twixt heaven and life,

Shaded by the holly bough in day

And guarded by the hawthorn bush at night.

 

Through the lych gate lies a garden

Carpeted with snowdrops, daffodils and bluebells,

One season glowing with the cherry blossom

The next deep in swathes of crispy fallen leaves.

 

The lych gate is rustic scenery

Roofed with an oak-beamed canopy,

Where ghosts can haunt in moonlight

And angels fly in sunlight.

 

The lych gate is typical village architecture

Roofed with earthy tiles and verdant moss,

Where owls can hoot during hours of dark

And butterflies flit during hours of light.

 

A place for sheltering brides and grooms

When well wishers cast up the confetti shower,

A place for resting coffins in storms

Until the clergyman arrives all grim and dower.

 

Lych comes from olde English tongue

Leiche, meaning a body or corpse in balm,

But now we love the lych gate and all beyond

For simply being a relic of English rural charm.