Melbourne Candid Series #1137 Little Lonsdale St

 

On Little Lonsdale, under silver skies, he stands
A bald man in suit, with upturned eyes and hands.
A microphone clutched like a herald’s call,
Words poised to rise above city’s sprawl.

A leather strapbag hugs his side, worn deep,
Stories stitched in folds it’s sworn to keep.
The satchel slung with a scholar’s grace,
Heavy with maps of a wandering place.

He does not speak, but listens to air,
To trams that sing and the footfall’s prayer.
In the hush between towers’ glass and stone,
He finds a pulpit in being alone.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 891

Melbourne Candid Series #1068 Flinders Station

 

At Flinders Gate where echoes dwell,
And city winds in chorus swell,
Two men of thinning, silvered hair
Conversed, unheeding worldly care.

The crowd swept past in hurried stream,
Like fragments drifting through a dream,
Yet still they stood in solemn thread,
Their words like murmurs to the dead.

Above, the clocks in noble row
Did mark the hours in patient glow;
Their faces lit by morning's lance,
Like watchful eyes in timeless trance.

The sun, half-caught in rising gleam,
Cast angled light—a painter’s beam—
That touched the stone with burnished grace,
And crowned the old gate’s steadfast face.

So moved the day, so moved the street,
With strangers’ lives in brief retreat;
Yet in that light, beneath that dome,
A moment held, as still as home.

Sony A7RV

FE 35mm f1.4 GM

Check out Candid 824