Melbourne Candid Series #1264 Swanston St

 

Under the 40 sign he waits
half tourist, half philosopher of tram-stop fates.
Backpack packed like he might flee
to Brunswick… or just JB Hi-Fi.

Shadows argue with the sun,
Typo clocks say errands aren’t done,
while Swanston Street streams brisk and loud
a moving, honking, retail crowd.

He studies traffic like modern art:
Is that my tram… or just a false start?
Bench beside him offers a seat
but commitment moves too fast on Swanston Street.

Sony A7RV

FE 35mm f1.4 GM

Check out Candid 1110

Melbourne Candid Series #1248 Bourke St Mall

 

A chap in shorts, legs crossed with ease,
sits on the iron bench, sunlit, at Bourke Street Mall 
the noon warmth paints his knees with gold,
the city hums, a tram bell calls.

Shadows drift like passing moods,
a breeze tugs softly at his sleeve;
around him, shoppers flow like tides,
but he — he stays, content to breathe.

Melbourne glows in tempered glass,
and time, for him, forgets to move 
a chap in shorts beneath the sun,
at peace with nothing left to prove.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 1004

Melbourne Candid Series #1247 Bourke St Mall

 

He stands beneath the wide city sky,
cap pulled low, T-shirt loose,
hands alive upon the electric keys
a melody rising above the noon.

Shoppers drift like quiet waves,
trams sigh past in steel refrain,
yet his voice threads through it all
a bright pulse woven into motion.

Coins fall softly in his open case,
but he does not count—he sings,
eyes half-closed, body swaying
as if the music were wind inside him.

The city becomes his stage and choir:
awnings flutter, heels keep time,
pigeons turn slow circles overhead.
And for a moment, Bourke Street glows
each note a spark against the hum,
the man and the mall breathing as one.

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Check out Candid 1003

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