On Collins way, in shadowed hour,
Came forth a wight in mask of black,
His satchel swayed with silent power,
No kin he hailed, nor turned him back.
A dame drew nigh, in lenses broad,
Like sun-craft glass from days gone pale,
Her visage still, her step unflawed,
She passed as ghost over stony trail.
By roadside bare, the chairs lay strewn—
Cold-forged seats of iron pride;
No soul did claim, nor mark their rune,
Abandoned there, where time doth bide.
So wandered they, beneath sun’s dim light,
Strangers twain in city’s breath,
Each bearing tales veiled from sight,
In silence brushed by life and death.
Sony A7RV
FE 35mm f1.4 GM
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