Ely* Poem by Neil Young

The cathedral, in silhouette, lays still.
Framed by a halo of low sun, its form
Ship-like, run aground, burns upon the land.

Nearer, it rises boldly from flat land.
Its stone, a two-tone grey and gold, glows still;
The sun defining shape where shadows form.

Within, the octagon’s flame-roaring form
Pours down its intense streams of light; they land,
Searing ground, through dusty air old and still.

Ely, its still form dominates the land.