Hair stands high on the cat's back like

a ridge of threatening hills.

Sheepdogs howl, make tracks and growl

their tails hanging low.

And young children falter in their games

at the altar of life's hide-and-seek

between tall pillars, where Sunday-night killers

in grey raincoats peek.

Misty colours unfold a backcloth cold

fine tapestry of silk

I draw around me like a cloak

and soundless glide a-drifting

on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled

brown and gold they fly

in the warm mesh of sunlight

sifting now from a cloudless sky.

I'll be coming again like an old dog in pain

Blown through the eye of the hurricane

Down to the stones where old ghosts play.