There were these two bee hive head women I used to see everywhere years ago and then suddenly they dissapeared overnight.
Although I never spoke aword to them, I imagined all sorts of things.
One burns the candle
All bees wax and Beethoven.
The other, a somnambulist.
A menagerie of fairy lights
and dream catcher cabaret.
They keep to themselves.
Impeccably dressed
Circa nineteen fifty.
All chemist shop perfume and sandalwood.
Nocturnal performing twins,
High wired show girls.
Circus nineteen sixty six.
Red velvet curtains, no safety net.
They’re all business.
The somnambulist wore black
and swung in her shadow.
They’re inseparable.
Like love and insanity.
Day in day out, the same cafe.
Ceylon tea and brandy snaps.
They speak a kind of sign language.
A world unto themselves.
This Porcelain pair.
Waxing lyrical over faded photos and the astrology column.
All eclecticism and intrigue.
Antiques born to be collected.
Sleepwalking misfits.
Unidentified.
Born in a Potters Field.
Destined to my imagination.