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.