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

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

Misty colors 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-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
Yes, 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