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.