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 [bad word] again like an old dog in pain 
Blown through the eye of the hurricane 
Down to the stones where old ghosts play.