certainly the children have seen them

in quiet places where the moss grows green



coloured shells jangle together

the wind is cold the year is old the trees whisper together

and bend in the wind they lean



next week a monkey is coming to stay



if I was a witches hat 

sitting on her head like a paraffin stove

I'd fly away and be a bat

across the air I would rove



stepping like a tightrope walker

putting one foot after another

wearing black cherries for rings