The Man They Scorned

See the man with straggly hair,
And dirt upon his clothes,
He walks the streets of any town,
From where he hales, know one knows.

Those who pass him turn away,
And to themselves, say, “he’s a site”,
Never offering the time of day,
Let alone thinking of his plight.

Yet beneath the outer shell,
An artist’s mind lies dormant.
Then inspiration starts to swell,
It only takes a moment

His hand moves to his satchel,
Out comes a pad and coloured pencil.
From then on, he will sit or stand,
And with a flourish of his hand,
A sketch, no a piece of art is formed,
Now what say the passers by,
About the man they scorned.

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