As a child, in our house late at night,
When the rooms were lit softly by gas,
There lived a large tribe of Wotchits
In the windows, 'tween curtains and glass.

Each night as I drew all the curtains,
I knew they'd have somewhere to hide,
Though I never saw them fill up that space,
I knew they were all tucked inside.

On October nights, they'd flap all the drapes
To show me the wind in the trees,
And I'd watch as they rustled and twitched like big leaves,
With the blankets wrapped tight round my knees.

In the mornings I'd whip back the curtains
But they'd be gone to their work for the day
And I'd look out at the grass and the now silent trees,
And wish that, just once, they would stay.

Yet on the next night I would hear them again,
And the shriek of their children at play
As the wind whistled round, they changed rooms with no sound,
But they'd still all be gone by next day.

In Spring, they smelled so much damper, and new,
While their Winter air tasted of frost
And in Summer cast flickering moon-shadows,
But I know they liked Autumn the most

For when the leaves fell outside of my window
And their rustling gave me a fright,
They would hide in the warmth of my curtains,
saying,`Wotchit! We'll get you tonight'.