I saunter through the silent square alone.
The cobblestones gleam from the misty moon.
Midnight, or so I think; the time’s unknown.
A trip to Bruges, where flower boxes bloom,
And canals spout beauty to make you groan
In awe of how the Lowlands can swoon
Under simple charms: an enlightened tone.
In the moonlight, St. Bartholomew’s looms,
A ship for lost souls; its deck made of stone.
Frans Hals, the portrait painter, will sail soon
To the studio where his art was honed.
Haarlem has a legacy, hid at noon;
Only in the dark have its treasures shone.
As dawn nears, the great reversal comes soon.