Melbourne Candid Series 1132 Bourke St Mall

 

Laughter on Bourke

He sat in sun, a man of years,
With laughter loud that chased the fears,
In sunglasses, his joy a flare
That split the noon with blazing care.

Beside him, quiet, his small young son,
A shadow short beneath the sun,
Looked up as if to catch the fire
That lit his father's brief desire.

The street around, a surging tide,
With trams and heels and time's long stride,
Yet in that pause the world stood still—
Just sun and blood, and love’s goodwill.

A city’s heart beat all around,
But sweeter was that human sound:
A father's laugh, deep-cut and real,
That spoke what mouths can’t always feel.

On Bourke they sat, mid noon’s wide sprawl,
Two lives adrift, yet held by all—
By sunlight, kinship, breath, and grace,
And joy that time cannot erase.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Check out Candid 886 This has been one of the top 10 favorite posted on my blog here

Melbourne Candid Series #1131 Bourke St Melb

 

(Same poem as yesterday)

A youth with mullet trailing wild,
A cap hung low, the city’s child,
Stood firm where footsteps throng and blur,
His violin his saboteur.

With rosined bow and eyes cast low,
He summoned tunes both fast and slow,
Each note a cry, a silver thread
Unspooling dreams the street had shed.

Behind him flowed the tram’s refrain,
Its bell a chime through smoke and rain,
While cars crawled past in tangled streams,
Oblivious to his stitched dreams.

He played not for applause or coin,
But for the world he might rejoin—
Where echoes rise through autumn's breath,
And songs outlive the hush of death.

Bourke watched in greys and neon hue,
As music flared and nightfall grew.
The crowd passed by, then circled round—
A boy, a bow, defying sound.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Check out 

Melbourne Candid Series #1130 Violin player on Bourke St Mall Melb

 

A youth with mullet trailing wild,
A cap hung low, the city’s child,
Stood firm where footsteps throng and blur,
His violin his saboteur.

With rosined bow and eyes cast low,
He summoned tunes both fast and slow,
Each note a cry, a silver thread
Unspooling dreams the street had shed.

Behind him flowed the tram’s refrain,
Its bell a chime through smoke and rain,
While cars crawled past in tangled streams,
Oblivious to his stitched dreams.

He played not for applause or coin,
But for the world he might rejoin—
Where echoes rise through autumn's breath,
And songs outlive the hush of death.

Bourke watched in greys and neon hue,
As music flared and nightfall grew.
The crowd passed by, then circled round—
A boy, a bow, defying sound.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Check out Candid 885

Melbourne Candid Series #1129 Bourke St Mall (Summer before winter this year)

 

A Lady on Bourke in Greying Light

Upon the cobbles of Bourke Street fair,
Where trams do hum through autumn air,
A lady passed in monochrome,
Her youth aglow though shades had grown.

She walked alone, yet not alone,
For in her ears sweet tunes had flown,
A Walkman played its whispered song,
A timeworn tape that sang along.

Her tresses curled like drifting flame,
Though black and white concealed her name,
She bore her spoils in papered grace,
From shops agleam in city’s face.

A bum bag slung with no pretense,
‘Twixt fashion’s flair and innocence,
She paused beneath the falling leaves,
As dusk drew in on gentle eves.

No winter yet, but chill in shade,
The light grew thin, yet undismayed,
She danced in step with music’s flow,
A fleeting ghost from long ago.

And though the years may swiftly pass,
Like tramlines threading panes of glass,
Still in that frame she softly stands—
A song, a stroll, two listening hands.

Sony A7RV 

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Check out Candid 884 and FACE OFF

Melbourne Candid Series #1128 Hosier Lane

 

In Hosier Lane where colours clash,
Where echoes bloom from spray can’s flash,
A man stood still with cap pulled low,
A camera poised, his eyes aglow.

The walls around were wild and loud,
A canvas shouting to the crowd—
Yet he, alone, in quiet stance,
Beheld it all as if in trance.

Each line, each stroke, each painted name,
To him was more than fleeting flame.
He sought the story, raw and true,
In every burst of red or blue.

No words he spoke, no sound he made,
Just shadows moved where light would fade.
The lens, an eye, both still and wise,
Caught truth in chaos, form in cries.

And though the world just walked on by,
He watched the wall like one who’d try
To read the soul of street and stone—
A man, a cap, a craft, alone.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 883

Melbourne Candid Series #1127 Flinders St

 

On Flinders Street in winter's breath,
Where light is low and still as death,
A family walked through morning's grey,
Their shapes cast long in soft decay.

One teenage boy stepped just ahead,
His gaze afar, thoughts loosely spread.
Behind, the father pushed the pram,
Its wheels in rhythm, slow and calm.

A younger child lay nestled deep,
Half-dreaming in a winter sleep.
The city's stir passed all around,
Yet peace within that pram was found.

The mother walked with silent grace,
Dark glasses veiled her watching face.
She turned to me—no smile, no frown,
Just knowing as she looked me down.

No need for words, no need for sound,
The tramline sang, the world spun round.
And in that frame of black and white,
They carried love through morning light.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 882

Melbourne Candid Series #1126 Hosier Lane

 

In Hosier Lane where shadows dwell,
And cobbled streets their secrets tell,
A man and woman paused their stride
To gaze into the sky wide-eyed.

Graffiti flared on every wall,
Yet they saw past the painted sprawl—
Not colours bold or rebel scrawl,
But something vast beyond it all.

Their heads were tilted, side by side,
Their breath a mist the cold supplied.
In black and white the moment stayed,
Two figures caught in light and shade.

What did they seek above the stone?
A passing bird, a world unknown?
The clouds perhaps, or trailing plane,
Or simply wonder, pure, unfeigned.

No words were said, no need to speak,
The silent sky was wide and bleak.
But in that hush, as time slipped by,
They touched the edge of winter’s sky.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 881

Melbourne Candid Series #1125 Swanston St

 

Upon a bench on Swanston bare,
Mid winter’s breath and biting air,
An elder woman took her place,
The chill wind tracing 'cross her face.

A cap drawn low o’er silver strands,
A phone held firm in gloved-up hands.
Her coat was thick, her posture sure,
She braved the cold with something pure.

Beside her sat, with polished grace,
A bag that spoke of wealth and place—
Its leather gleamed, its buckles shone,
A thing of means, yet she alone.

She spoke in murmurs, calm, composed,
As trams passed by and daylight dozed.
The city swirled in greys and blacks,
While frost clung tight to tramway tracks.

She seemed a relic, firm and still,
A monument of tempered will.
While winter wrapped the world in white,
She warmed the street with quiet might.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM 

Check out Candid 880

Melbourne Candid Series #1124 Swanston St

 

Upon Swanston Street where tram bells chime,
In Melbourne’s heart and city’s prime,
A young chap stands in shirt and cap,
Beside his cart, a silver map.

His hands are quick, his manner keen,
He serves up swirls of cold and cream—
In cones like spires, in bowls like bells,
A moment’s joy his labour tells.

The footpath hums with boots and haste,
Yet here, they pause for sugared taste.
Beneath the clock, beneath the sky,
The city breathes, and time slips by.

A lady laughs, a child grins wide,
The chap with pride stands just beside.
No colours blaze—just black and white,
Yet in this frame, the world feels right.

The tram glides past with iron sigh,
A gull wheels low, then climbs the sky.
And still he stands, his trade the same—
A fleeting joy, a quiet flame.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Check out Candid 879

Melbourne Candid Series #1123 Swanston St

 

Beneath the sun on Swanston Street,
Where tramlines hum and footsteps meet,
A dad walks slow with steady hand,
His daughter close, a quiet stand.

Both clad in shirts of shadowed hue,
They thread the light the city threw.
The sun above, the world in gleam,
But in their clasp, a softer dream.

No words exchanged, no need for sound,
Their bond is stitched in steps and ground.
A fleeting glimpse, yet deeply spun—
Two shadows walking through the sun.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 878

Melbourne Candid Series #1122 Bourke St Mall

 

On Bourke Street Mall where the city hums,
And midday light on pavement drums,
A young man stands with cap drawn low,
Beside an elder, moving slow.

She rests upon a striped bench, still,
Her hands upon the frame she fills—
A four-wheeled guide through time and pace,
While crowds pass by without a face.

He leans in close, a gentle grace,
Perhaps a word, perhaps embrace.
No need for praise or loud acclaim,
Just quiet care without a name.

Among the trams and hurried feet,
Two lives in stillness gently meet—
A moment soft, of silent art,
Drawn not in speech, but open heart.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 877 and FACE OFF

Melbourne Candid Series #1121 Collins St

 

On Collins Street beneath the glare,
A man with short-cropped wind-tossed hair
Twists his body, leans askew,
As if the sun had split him through.

His eyes are shut, a fleeting shield
Against the blaze the noon revealed.
A T-shirt clings in summer’s heat,
A bag swings low with rhythmic beat.

Behind, the crowd flows like a stream,
Each face absorbed in its own dream.
But he, alone in this brief fight,
Moves through the shimmer, squints at light.

A moment caught—so strangely bright—
Of man and motion, sun and spite.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 877

Melbourne Candid Series #1120 Collins Arcade

 

Inside Collins Arcade, where shadows play,
A boutique glows in monochrome grey.
A gentleman stands, with a beard so neat,
In silence poised, his ritual complete.

Jars and flasks in orderly row,
Spices and oils with a fragrant flow.
His hands, like echoes of time gone past,
Move with care, deliberate and fast.

He measures, pours, then seals with grace,
As if each condiment held a trace
Of old-world charm and whispered lore,
Within that modest Melbourne store.

The arcade hums with ghostly tread,
Footsteps soft where dreams are fed.
And in that frame of black and white,
He works—a figure bathed in light.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 876

Melbourne Candid Series #1119 Latrobe St

 

A moody lane off La Trobe’s line,
Where shadows stretch and wires entwine,
In monochrome the night is drawn,
A ghost of light before the dawn.

The cobbles slick with echoed rain,
Hold footsteps blurred, half lost in grain,
Each lamp a flicker, pale and stark,
Carves silver shapes into the dark.

No colour dares disturb the scene,
Just black and white and shades between—
A hush, a breath, the city bare,
As if the world forgot to care.

And yet, beneath that ghostly hue,
The night still whispers something true—
That even silence, dim and deep,
Can cradle dreams the dark must keep.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 875

Melbourne Candid Series #1118 Latrobe St

 

Beneath soft glow of city light,
Four voices stir the gentle night,
Outside a café, tucked away,
Off La Trobe where shadows play.

Four women laugh with easy grace,
The warmth of friendship on each face,
Their stories drift like jasmine tea,
Infused with calm and memory.

A breeze curls past, the hour late,
Yet still they linger, hearts elate—
Their languages in laughter blend,
Where night and kinship never end.

The city hums its quiet tune,
A silver hush beneath the moon,
While in that moment, clear and true,
The world feels kind and fleeting too.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out 

Melbourne Candid Series #1117 Latrobe St

 

Beneath the dim of La Trobe’s light,
A man steps into Melbourne night,
His shadow long, his pace is slow,
Past rusted walls in lantern glow.

A weathered hat sits firm with grace,
Drawn low to guard his silent face,
The cobblestones echo his tread,
Like whispers from the days long dead.

The building stands with timbers worn,
Its frame of history cracked and torn,
A relic of some bygone year,
Still holding secrets no one hears.

He does not glance, nor turn around,
Just fades into the sleeping sound—
A figure draped in time’s own thread,
Alive with ghosts, yet half-way dead.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 873

Melbourne Candid Series #1116 Latrobe St

 

A woman, smuck smile playing coy,
Threads the night on Latrobe’s ploy,
Beneath the argent veil of gloom,
She weaves through shadows, soft as bloom.

Her presence—ghostly chiaroscuro—
Etched in black and white’s soft furrow,
A fleeting waltz of light and shade,
Where time itself seems dimly swayed.

Behind her, silent, stilled in breath,
A man absorbs the night’s bequeath—
That sly curl, that knowing gleam,
A whispered riddle, half a dream.

On Melbourne’s street where darkness sighs,
She moves—a secret in his eyes.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 872

Melbourne Candid Series #1115 Latrobe St

 

At night, just off LaTrobe’s long line,
Where windows glow with muted shine,
A restaurant hums with quiet grace—
A moment framed in time and place.

Inside, beneath the amber hue,
Where shadows soften every view,
An older woman nears a chair,
With silver thread upon her hair.

She moves with care, yet holds a light
That flickers gently in the night—
As if the years have bowed, not dimmed,
The quiet fire she keeps within.

A table waits—set four, not two—
With linen crisp and glasses dew,
And at its edge, a young man stands,
Delight cupped warmly in his hands.

His eyes are wide with welcome’s gleam,
His smile—a sun caught in a dream.
He greets her not with duty worn,
But joy, unpracticed and reborn.

And in that glance, a thread is tied,
Across the years, the lives, the tide.
No trumpet flares, no passer sees—
But something stirs, as soft as breeze.

For there, beyond the streetlight’s gleam,
Two hearts, in silence, start to dream.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 871 and FACE OFF

Melbourne Candid Series #1114 Latrobe St

 

From LaTrobe’s spine, a side street bends,
Where city’s edge and evening blends—
And there beneath the sodium light,
A gathering stirs the breath of night.

Outdoor tables, silver-clad,
Hold bowls half-full and glasses glad.
The diners speak in gentle rings,
Their laughter softened, fluttering wings.

But some have left their seats behind,
As if compelled by idle mind;
They drift among the chairs like breeze,
A loosened rhythm, aimless ease.

One lifts a glass, then walks away,
Another stands mid-thought, mid-sway—
As though the street itself might call
To taste the quiet in its thrall.

The waiters weave like ghosts through light,
Their trays afloat in charcoal night,
While overhead, the buildings lean
Like silent elders in between.

No haste, no hush—just human tide
That ebbs through Melbourne’s darker side.
A city’s pulse, low-lit, alive,
Where strangers sit, and stories thrive.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 870

Melbourne Candid Series #1113 Latrobe St

 

Off LaTrobe Street, where trams glide past
And Melbourne hums its stories fast,
A window holds a quiet frame—
Two figures lit by candle flame.

Night presses soft against the glass,
As strangers in the dark hours pass,
But here, within this warm-lit cave,
A pause—the kind that silence gave.

He leans, his right hand props his face,
Time draped across him, slow and base.
Eyes half-lost in drifting thought,
In words unsaid or battles fought.

She bows her gaze toward the plate,
A woman caught in inward state.
The silver waits, the wine grows thin,
But she has turned somewhere within.

They do not speak; they do not smile—
They sit apart across the tile
Of linen white and shadows low,
Two souls in dinner's afterglow.

Outside, the city does not care,
It flickers, breathes, and fills the air.
But here—a stillness sharp and deep,
Like love that lingers, half-asleep.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 869

Melbourne Candid Series #1112 Latrobe St

 

Beneath a bleached and silent sky,
LaTrobe Street hums a mournful sigh—
The past, half-laced with soot and steam,
Unfolds itself like some half-waking dream.

He walks alone, a ciphered man,
In coat of dusk and twilight’s span;
A brimmed hat veils his spectral gaze,
A face half-lost in London's haze.

He bears the shape of myth unwound,
Of orphaned tales on hallowed ground,
And though no wand adorns his hand,
He moves as though he might command
The dust to lift, the bricks to speak,
The ghosts that gather once a week.

Behind him leans a weathered place,
A structure smudged with time’s embrace—
Its windows dull with decades’ grime,
Its arches carved by soot and rhyme.

He does not pause, nor glance behind,
A pilgrim stitched from page and mind.
Not Harry, no—but someone born
From ink, from fog, from books well-worn.

And all around, the grayscale clings,
As if to quiet magic’s wings—
Yet still he walks, and still we yearn,
For spells to stir, and clocks to turn.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 868