Upon Lonsdale Street, in twilight's shade,
A weary man, mid-years and grey,
With bottle dark in hand he strayed,
Its label long since peeled away.
A heavy sack upon his arm,
With secrets cloaked in cloth and thread,
He moved with neither haste nor charm,
Where quiet city footsteps led.
His beard was worn by time’s slow tide,
Now streaked with ash, with silver lined,
And through a strolling pair he tried
To weave his path, as if inclined—
By purpose strange, or whims unknown,
He wandered on, yet not alone.
Sony A7RV
FE 35mm f1.4 GM
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