my Bruges, December 1, 2013‏

though we were some distance away
from Bruges the journey back and forth
proved to be no inconvenience given
both that Staf and Annemie, our hosts,
were so accommodating, ensuring that
those treks would be seamless, and that
our stay with them would be warm
in fact, every one of our wishes became
their inviolable command, and that at no
less than our indiscriminate pleasure
at the door of their glorious country 
home at first, behind the wrought
iron gate, there were only the chickens
to greet us, pecking away at the front
yard – whose fresh eggs we had for
breakfast every morning, along with
fresh orange and apple juices from
the nearby orchards, bottomless pots
of hot coffee, tea, ham, cheese and
warm bread – but soon around the
corner from the back Annemie showed
up having returned from harvesting
apples, welcoming us like old friends,
then Staf, doing his avuncular same  
the rooms, named after Flemish
artists, were unique, spotless,
and heartfelt 
we stayed a week, and it remains
equal to very Bruges, a Gothic
wonderland, in our estimation 
5 unequivocal st * rs
psst: there’s even a five-star restaurant
        across the street, inexplicably, which
        doesn’t however, be warned, take
        credit cards, as do neither Staf and
        Annemie, who, none of them, ever
        questioned our honour in that
        improbable, we thought, 
        circumstance, an Old World, we
        guessed, thing