On Lonsdale Street he pauses, black-clad and bowed,
A silvered arch of hat against the day;
Bone-stitched trousers whisper as he goes,
Steel wheels mark time where traffic has its say.
Between the rush, he stands—old ritual kept—
A lone, dark note the city has not swept.
Sony A7RV
FE 135mm f1.8 GM
Check out Candid 1074 and FACE OFF
Along the gravel paths of Flagstaff’s green,
Where summer fairs dissolve in muted sound,
He walks alone, though never quite unseen,
A fixed point while the crowd moves all around.
Dark lenses guard his eyes from open view,
As if the day were brighter than it seems;
His gaze turned inward, thoughtful, stern, and true,
Attentive more to weight than passing gleams.
The checked shirt hangs with workman’s quiet ease,
Plain cloth that knows the language of the day,
Unbothered by the tents, the hum, the breeze,
Or idle talk that drifts and slips away.
Behind him, faces blur to softened shade,
Their gestures half-considered, quickly spent;
They come and go like marks the feet have made
Upon the grass, erased as soon as meant.
Yet he remains, a figure set in pause,
As though the moment asked him to endure
A witness to no spectacle or cause,
But simply to the act of being sure.
Thus Flagstaff Gardens keeps him in its care
Not hero, nor observer raised above,
But one still centre in the breathing air,
Where crowds pass on, and solitude holds love.
Sony A7RV
FE 135mm f1.8 GM
Check out Candid 1067
Along Lonsdale where the noon light pales,
He walks the narrow margin of the day,
Stone walls to one side, traffic’s distant tales
Unspooling where the city bends away.
The footpath keeps his measured, solitary pace,
A quiet drum beneath his steady stride;
Head bowed not in sorrow but in grace
Of thought absorbed, the world held close inside.
A plastic bag swings low with common needs,
Bread for the night, the ordinary fare;
No anthem here but headphones whispering seeds
Of private worlds no passerby can share.
The city does not pause to learn his name—
It rarely does, and rarely needs to know—
Yet in this frame, unchanged, unnamed, he claims
His moment as the streets continue to flow.
O Lonsdale Street, in monochrome and stone,
You hold a thousand lives like this in trust:
Each step a verse, each passerby alone,
Each day composed of habit, will, and dust.
Sony A7RV
FE 135mm f1.8 GM
Check out Candid 1056
In Flagstaff Garden’s open air,
A chap stands dressed in suited flair
A crisp-cut rose, a classic hat,
But his painted face is more than that.
Mexican colours bloom in grace,
A festival dancing on his face,
Petal patterns, skulls of white,
A hint of day and edge of night.
Among the trees the city hums,
Yet he becomes the beat of drums,
A walking echo, bold and bright,
Of distant lands and candle light.
There in Melbourne’s gentle green,
Tradition shifts, alive, unseen—
A suited man, half myth, half art,
Carrying culture on his heart.
Sony A7RV
FE 135mm f1.8
Check out Candid 1038
An Indian chap leans toward the light,
camera poised, eyes half-narrowed,
his fingers steady as if tuning a string.
He glances at the small blue glow
of the LCD—his private universe
where a fragment of Melbourne
is trapped in digital silence.
Behind him, tables hum with midday talk:
cutlery glints, coffee curls in steam,
laughter drifts like music caught
between brick and awning.
The city moves, yet he is still
framing the world’s brief shimmer,
a moment folding into another.
Somewhere, a tram bell rings,
and the wind carries the scent of roast and rain.
He lowers the camera, half-smiling,
as though what he sought
wasn’t in the image,
but in the act of seeing itself.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2
Check out Candid 1001 and FACE OFF
A father bends,
hands fumbling in the bag,
searching for a small delight—
a toy, a sweet, a promise of care.
Beside him,
his daughter waits,
eyes wide as if the world
were stitched from his pockets.
Across the street,
a current of strangers flows—
heels striking, bicycles leaning,
faces turned toward their own errands.
Yet in the noise,
this quiet gesture blooms:
love measured not in grandeur,
but in the reach of a father’s hand.
Sony A7RV
FE 35mm f1.4 GM
Check out Candid 947
Down Collins Street he strode,
beard bristling in the city’s glow,
both hands laden with goods,
each step a wide unhurried claim
upon the pavement’s grey expanse.
Great earphones crowned his head,
a private orchestra unheard by all,
yet his stride kept perfect time,
a rhythm only he could hear,
a march through Melbourne’s bustle.
Shoppers glanced, the trams rolled on,
but he—self-contained, unfaltering
carried his burdens like trophies,
a solitary figure,
moving to music of his own.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 935
Off Collins Arcade,
a man in a wide-brimmed hat
hauls a heavy bag,
its weight tugging at his shoulder.
His shirt, thin with wear,
clings to him in the afternoon light,
nipples pressing forward,
stark as punctuation marks
against the fabric’s looseness.
Beside him his spouse keeps pace,
steps in quiet rhythm,
their figures slipping
into the current of Swanston Street,
two lives moving forward,
ordinary, unadorned,
yet etched sharply
against the city’s hum.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 925
Along Flinders Street the footsteps beat,
A chap moves steady through the heat.
Dark glasses hide his guarded gaze,
A cap pulled low in city haze.
Upon his chest, in black and white,
The Collingwood crest declares its might.
He walks with pride, both firm and free,
A living note in Melbourne’s symphony.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 922
On Swanston Street beneath the sky,
A man in monochrome walks by.
With polo crisp and trousers neat,
He strides along the Melbourne heat.
Sunglasses poised, a borrowed air,
Of nonchalance too sharp to wear.
His Nordic frame, upright and tall,
Pretends he doesn’t care at all.
But shadows know what cool can’t hide
The flicker of a smile inside.
A city moment, caught in grace,
Of style, and pose, and time, and place.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 917 and FACE OFF
The chap with a cap on Little Flinders Lane,
Stands in the slant of a morning refrain.
With a cup in hand, he quietly sips,
A smoothie swirling at his lips.
Berry or mango—who’s to say?
His gaze drifts slow with the start of day.
Tram bells ring and footsteps pass,
While time runs thin through café glass.
No rush, no fuss, just city hum,
And fruit-blent calm where thinkers come.
A cap, a cup, and quiet poise
A moment soft in Melbourne noise.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 910
On Elizabeth Street where trams roll slow,
Two figures walk where city breezes blow.
A mother and daughter, side by side,
In black and white, with quiet pride.
Their Collingwood shirts bold as the dawn,
Stripes like stories lovingly drawn.
The daughter’s disregard, light as lace,
Mirrors the confusion on her mother’s face.
Among the rush of Melbourne's hum,
Past café steam and traffic's drum,
They hold their own—a loyal thread
To cheers once roared, and legends said.
Hands entwined, hearts dressed the same,
Walking the path of a shared flame.
Not just a team, but a tale retold—
Of love, of legacy, and colors bold.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 907
A little boy rides his scooter slow,
Wheels whisper soft on streets below.
Across Exhibition, bold and wide,
He glides with wonder, dad by his side.
Monochrome holds the city still,
Time in grayscale bends to will.
Shadows stretch, the tram bells chime,
They move as if outside of time.
His father’s hand, a steady guide,
Through crosswalks where the moments bide.
A boy, a scooter, a world to claim—
In black and white, he writes his name.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 894
On Hosier Lane where the murals breathe,
A man walks uphill with sunlight sheathed—
Gleaming shades on his silent face,
Each step wrapped in the lane’s embrace.
His wife beside, her hand in his own,
Two shadows stretching on cobblestone.
She leans like memory, soft and near,
He leads like time with nothing to fear.
The walls around burst wild with hue,
But they move quiet, just passing through—
A moment framed in a painted land,
Love uphill, hand in hand.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 892 and FACE OFF
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
Upon Swanston Street, where footsteps meet,
A lone man walks in midday heat.
With earphones snug and singlet white,
He strides ahead, lost from all sight.
The city's hum fades to a tone,
For in his world, he walks alone.
Eyes widely shut, no glance is thrown—
This is his hour, he is the zone.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 889 and FACE OFF
Beneath the dim of La Trobe’s light,
A man steps into Melbourne night,
His shadow long, his pace is slow,
Past rusted walls in lantern glow.
A weathered hat sits firm with grace,
Drawn low to guard his silent face,
The cobblestones echo his tread,
Like whispers from the days long dead.
The building stands with timbers worn,
Its frame of history cracked and torn,
A relic of some bygone year,
Still holding secrets no one hears.
He does not glance, nor turn around,
Just fades into the sleeping sound—
A figure draped in time’s own thread,
Alive with ghosts, yet half-way dead.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 873
Beneath a bleached and silent sky,
LaTrobe Street hums a mournful sigh—
The past, half-laced with soot and steam,
Unfolds itself like some half-waking dream.
He walks alone, a ciphered man,
In coat of dusk and twilight’s span;
A brimmed hat veils his spectral gaze,
A face half-lost in London's haze.
He bears the shape of myth unwound,
Of orphaned tales on hallowed ground,
And though no wand adorns his hand,
He moves as though he might command
The dust to lift, the bricks to speak,
The ghosts that gather once a week.
Behind him leans a weathered place,
A structure smudged with time’s embrace—
Its windows dull with decades’ grime,
Its arches carved by soot and rhyme.
He does not pause, nor glance behind,
A pilgrim stitched from page and mind.
Not Harry, no—but someone born
From ink, from fog, from books well-worn.
And all around, the grayscale clings,
As if to quiet magic’s wings—
Yet still he walks, and still we yearn,
For spells to stir, and clocks to turn.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 868
On LaTrobe Street where city hums and glows,
A lady walks, her footsteps soft and slow.
Her back to us, a bag swung by her side,
She moves with grace where bustling crowds reside.
Through glass and light of Melbourne’s evening gleam,
She enters in, a quiet, fleeting dream.
The restaurant’s warm doors part wide and clear,
Inviting her to moments held sincere.
In urban pulse where stories intertwine,
She walks unseen, a figure by design.
A glimpse, a step — the city’s gentle beat,
A dance of life where strangers and paths meet.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 862
Thick jumper wraps a weary frame,
A middle-aged man, no rush, no aim.
Down Swanston Street he drifts alone,
Among the crowds, yet still unknown.
The city hums, the footsteps blend,
Each step a story, no clear end.
In worn threads wrapped against the chill,
He moves through life, steadfast and still.
Sony A7RV
FE 50mm f1.2 GM
Check out Candid 842 and FACE OFF
