Cobham Woods* Poem by Neil Young

Gnarled trunks rise up in lines like Gothic shafts of stone,
While underneath the weight of sky their branches groan.
Faint psalmody, those soughing leaves are clearer seen
Than understood; they quiver in a vault of green,
Reveal in speckled fragments, a soft, subtle light;
A clerestory up high, whose dusty windows might
Impinge upon the sullen shade to contemplate
The length of ground, uneven, nave-like, conformate…

The smell of leaf-mould, earth and sweet decay is stirred;
A heady incense rising from the ground. We stand,
As if in some cathedral that nature's swift hand
Reclaimed; this holy place abandoned, barely heard;
Observe the altar just a burned out, rusted car;
Its shell, its subfusc heart a brooding sepulchre.