Re-Awakening (Reprisal No.4) ** Poem by Neil Young

From this small room we watch dawn slowly bleeding through,
A pale green trace that fades in like a lighting cue,
As measured as a scene from Pinter. Framed in the gloss
White Georgian sash, Bell Harry vaguely stares at us.
All around him death and rebirth still evolves,
In spite of war. The past, though bruised, somehow survives.
We lay here naked, loved and reacquainted; woken
By that peal of bells, the call to Matins. Broken
Cries of frantic seagulls circle our cathedral.
Do they celebrate the morning like renewal
Of a faith, play vultures to an old decayed
Religion on its knees, or hover beady-eyed
For scraps vain tourists left behind? They're diving down.
We coil like earthworms wriggling on some hotel lawn.