Beneath the elms of Flagstaff’s quiet green,
Where iron paths and city breath convene,
A humble cart stands fast against the day,
Its banner worn, yet bold in painted say.
Here hands move swift in practised, patient art,
As if the world were measured by each part:
The folded board, the steam, the passing plate,
The pause between the hunger and its sate.
No throne nor marble marks this common ground,
Yet here the pulse of living may be found.
A coin, a glance, a nod—no words are sworn,
But something older than the park is born.
The vendors stand like figures in a frieze,
Intent, composed, untouched by passing breeze;
While waiting souls, half-lit by noon’s mild glare,
Lift hands as though in secular prayer.
O Flagstaff lawn, you cradle more than rest:
Within your shade, the world is briefly blessed
Where labour, need, and simple grace align,
And daily bread is shared like sacred wine.
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