Jehtro Tull

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.