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 in a backcloth cold -

fine tapestry of silk

I draw around me like a cloak

and glide a-drifting

on eddies whirled in beech leaves furled -

brown and gold they fly

through 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