Muffled wheels roll on
Through silent streets
Leading the way
In this most sombre meet.
The horses are bridled
And patiently wait
Where they are left
By the old lych-gate.
Black draped harness creaks
And sighs as one shifts
From foot to foot;
Each fetlock's lift
Gently transmits to the cart.
The driver sits, clad in black
Waiting for the party
To slowly wend back,
All the sins will be eaten
At the funeral meal
For all to taste and purge
Any emotions they feel:
The old lych-gate carelessly shut
When the party is gone,
For today is for sorrow,
Life tomorrow moves on.
The cart will be working
Back out in the field
Bringing in the sustenance
Good Harvest will yield;
And through the lych-gate
In the burying ground
Fresh turf will settle
On a newly made mound.
