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From Flemish skies he read the signs,
In gentle tones and measured lines,
A weatherman with steady hand,
Beloved across the lowland land.

No drama, just the honest air—
A high, a low, a front out there,
“Morgen wat bewolkt, wat zon,”
And somehow all our worries gone.

Through decades on the evening screen,
The kindest face that weather’s seen,
With charts and clouds and fond goodbye—
Frank, the keeper of our sky.