Within Flagstaff Gardens’ measured green repose,
Where time slows softly on the open lawn,
A lone man stands, while all around him flows
The idle hour of an unhurried dawn.
He lifts his lens as though it were an eye
More patient than the pulse within his hand,
To catch the fleeting truth that passes by
And bind it fast at his quiet command.
The crowd recedes; the background hums and blurs
A distant murmur, casual and kind
While through the glass the present moment stirs,
Briefly obedient to the watching mind.
Behind him, seated low upon the grass,
Two figures share their bread, their drink, their pause;
They speak in gestures moments let slip past,
Unaware they serve a subtler cause.
Their ease becomes the counterpoint of art,
The stillness framing movement, thought, and aim;
For life, unposed, plays always its own part,
And needs no witness calling out its name.
Thus Flagstaff Gardens holds them all at once:
The watcher, watched, the careless, and the keen
A living page where nothing is announced,
Yet everything is quietly seen.
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FE 135mm f1.8 GM
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