Beneath the canopy, shadows play on stone,
The lychgate stands, a sentinel of time gone by.
Generations passed through here, heads bowed,
In sorrow and remembrance, in the stillness of loss.
The wind tells stories of those who walked under its arch,
Carrying burdens heavier than the coffins they bore.
Now, it stands alone, a relic of rituals forgotten,
Its timbers groan with age, but they endure,
Holding secrets of silent goodbyes and unspoken prayers.
Nature reclaims what was once hers,
Moss spreads like a quiet rebellion,
Vines twist and curl, binding the past to the present.
But still, the lychgate stands,
A testament to what remains when all else moves on,
A place where the living met the dead,
And time stood still, if only for a moment.