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