I put my head outside – it is not cold
There's a richness in the copper-coloured leaves
The tourists in the centre wear short sleeves.
The sky is sapphire blue, the wind benign
A man lies on a bench, quite close to mine
Oblivious of the movement all around
As if his brain has blocked off every sound.
The Opera House before me exudes peace
Above eight lofty columns, Grecian frieze
The Belgian lion struts before a lyre
No traces now remain of a bad fire
Which ravaged it in 1855
But soon it rose again, sure to survive.
Season tickets can't be had for ready money
It is sold out every season – it's uncanny.
In Eighty-Six a brand new floor was added;
The extension roof now green; with black tiles cladded.
Its role in Belgian history is well known
The Dutch in 1830 were sent home!
Its elegance and style are much remarked
Strange to think that here was lit the spark
That caused the Revolution – made us proud
As a symbol of our Statehood – it's unbowed!
(c) Poet in the woods 2014
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