On Little Lonsdale, the footsteps flow,
Tourists gather, faces aglow.
A man in cap and darkened shade,
Bows his head where silence stayed.
One lady lifts her searching eyes,
Shirt round her waist beneath the skies.
Another bends with subtle grace,
Adjusts her ear pod in her place.
And one, absorbed, in steady tone,
Frames the world upon her phone.
Among the crowd, in fleeting streams,
Each holds a fragment of their dreams.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 920
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
