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
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