Beige

In the quiet corners of a city flat,
Beige drapes the walls in muted, patient grace—
A soft embrace of sand‑washed stone,
Where light sighs gently over wool and lace.

It holds the calm of morning mist,
The hush of parchment left to age,
A canvas for the bold to list
Their hopes in shades that neither blaze nor rage.

From Norfolk tweed to Chelsea’s quiet cafés,
Beige walks the streets in understated poise,
A neutral tongue that softly says
“Stay awhile, and hear the world’s soft voice.”