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.
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