By:  Lynn White

All those lost people wandering the streets,
perambulating among the purposeful passers by.
Loose souls, dreaming products
waiting to be fixed in frames,
or pencilled in,
placed on a page, or stage,
stabilised,
finished by my hand.
Finished off.
They are the products of my day or night dreams.
They don’t draw glances from the others
even though they are a little strange.
Even though, they are not quite right.
Eccentric beings who don’t quite belong
here
wandering,
perhaps falling,
tumbling,
waving their arms,
or wings.
And the others pass by
purposefully,
oblivious.

Sometimes though,
they may inhabit the others,
briefly take over the passers by,
the purposeful ones
who know who they are
and where they are going.
Then I can watch the strangeness develop.
Can transform them into wanderers.
Make them speak unheard words
that I understand.
I hear them perfectly
and reply silently
knowing that they will understand.

My whimsical wanderers,
my flying fancies.
just waiting for me
to decide their fate.