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.