Old Ghosts

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.