Great Gable** (A British Landscape No.1) Poem by Neil Young

His camera captures it in monochrome;
These solid shapes and textured depths appear
Far more remote than human eyes interpret.
This clumsy landscape, wind-worn and unpeopled,
Rising up seems somewhat biblical,

Yet falls away as fickle as a faith
On Sunday, forgotten when those church doors close.
I can almost hear the clouds’ disgruntled,
Mumbled thoughts drifting over wind-blown scrub.
Had Christ lived near, would this be his wilderness?

If I stood here, tempted, I’d hurl my voice
Across the void like a rock, testing faith.
Unlike the rock that settles somewhere near,
The voice, on its return, would be my own;
My question, still a question, still unanswered.