The Belgian Quarter

I like the morning
The path untrodden and the flag firmly furled
They clean the detritus of the night before
When I hid behind my hotel room door

The wilderland forged from clay and sand
Fresh foliage from a spray can
Gives up it's starting role as,
The bustle steals my quiet stroll


Untitled Winter Verse

There's a harsh beauty in her
her fairer sister can never hope to possess.
It can't be replicated 
only worn in over time 
like a fine patina
Stews of rich red wine with 
musky herbs of depth and desire 
added slowly over time

A beauty that creeps on you 
like a dreich November fog
Settling the silence of a soft Sunday lie in.

Tea, toast and icy cuddles

(image by dark777fairy)