Belle

The Belle of Belgravia

In fog‑kissed mornings when the Thames does sigh,
She walks the pavement, light as whispered lace,
A belle whose smile could coax the greyest sky
To blush a softer, warmer pastel hue.

Her hair, a cascade of midnight‑threaded silk,
Frames eyes that hold the quiet depth of tea—
Earl Grey steeped in thought, a tranquil brew
That steadies hearts whenever storm winds break.

She wears a dress of muted emerald hue,
The colour of spring shoots in Hyde Park’s glade,
Where children chase the trampling lorry’s view
And old men tip their caps in quiet crusade.

Her laughter rings like bells from Westminster’s tower,
Clear and bright, yet tinged with modest grace,
A sound that turns the ordinary hour
Into a stage where kindness takes its place.

Though London’s rush may roar like underground trains,
She moves with poise, a lift that never strains—
Each step a stanza, each glance a verse,
A living sonnet the city rehearses.

So raise a cup, dear friends, to this fair belle,
Whose charm is woven into Britain’s seam—
Not merely beauty that the eye can tell,
But grace that makes the ordinary gleam.