Lost in the grey

of an evening

in Bruges;

On streets I no longer recognise

searching for those bars

whose names I no longer remember,

where I was enveloped in a

pervasive aroma of wheat beer

that hovered aloft like incense

at altars I once worshipped at;

The Belfort Tower still towers above

an intricate labyrinth of crook backed,

criss crossed narrow streets

whose timeless mise-en-scene

admonishes me for not staying longer;

From a distance,

thro’ a smoke misted window pane

a jingle jangle jukebox

whispers inarticulately

remnants of a melody

that once was the anthem

of lives lived long ago.


( Originally published 14/9/17 )




” Quick ! ” ,

” The camera ! “



before the buildings all

up skirts and run away;

tourists huddled in gloomy

noonday shadows of The Belfort.

Nearby they’re exhibiting Dali,

though I can’t quite determine

its precise geographic location,

the blind waffle-vendor tells me,

indirectly that Dali has been

relocated to a nearby aubergine ;

” You’d scarcely believe it had sufficient

room to house all of Dali’s effulgent textuality”

at that the midnite grinning tabby-cat

pronounced itself satisfied with its

idiomatic translation of the

sightless vendor’s account;

” unlock the secret aubergine portal and

you’ll never need to approach any lemon again,

citrussy traitors the lot of them!”

hectored the petty feline demagogue

in the spirit of an alfresco symposium;

I antithetically posited that not all

lemons were conspiratorial and was,

” I tawt I taw a puddy-tat ” aware

that Belfries emphasised a deep human

urge for freedom and democracy ?

disquieted in that Sylvestrine manner

that all Cats display he reiterated

that Dali extricated the snot

from his own nose,flicked it at

the world and the critics said,

that it was art,truth and beauty;

” yeah,but what about all those conspiratorial Lemons ? “

we concurred, the Feline and I.


( Originally published  9/8 /14 )


A soft elegant turquoise
caresses your eyes,
inviting you to join
and enter into the day;
a day of glances and looks,
talk and walk,coffee and books;
still now,languid at 8a.m.
early buses down from
the station perambulate
Markt’s splendid circumference,
diverting to destinations
further along hidden in a
nuanced symmetry of slowly
revealing labyrinths hewn
and cobbled,restored,narrow
and poignant two-storied brick
houses with neat serrated roofs
in angled and parabola’d straats
fanning out from Langstraat
up to Jerusalemkerk with
their careful clever twists,
you navigate by spires,
cathedral and churches
and totemic Belfort,
clocked and counting,
its innard 365 steps
a challenge for later;
now,bicycles,delivery vans
and the morning commuters are
unravelling their silken-thread
routes and your eyes trace a
lazy line on your pocketbook map,
from where you are to where
you need to be,
here in Bruges,
it’s all the same.


( Originally published 5/7/14 )


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