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.