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
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