[“A childhood dream of my husband Ian, namely to visit Disneyland and America, came true in 1998. Our family had a holiday that we will always treasure.“]”
Row upon row of delightful dolls-houses,
in varying tones of grey, mud-brown, maybe a pink or blue.
White accents bringing them to life.
All alike, with flight of steps to entry.
Fretwork, the finishing touch,
adorning
peaked-hat attic rooflines.
So starkly different
from rows too numerous to count
of newbuilds.
Jostled together,
stretched higher to the sky,
colours so bland.
No personality, or garden, to be seen.
This is San Francisco,
a city with no room to grow.
Or, surprisingly, even a place to bury their dead.
Yet vibrant, enticing.
Streets and pier to explore.
Stephen grasps the door frame,
thoroughly enjoying rush of crisp-Spring air,
as we ride the cable car,
up, and down, steep inclines.
Bell joyously
ding, ding, dinging
our way to Fisherman’s Wharf.
Seals slumber on floating wood-mattresses
at Pier 33,
occasionally, lazily, flipping over, for comfort no doubt.
Oblivious to the grim, haunted cells of Alcatraz
just a ferry ride across strong currents, in the bay.
The penitentiary island
a place to forget.
Pam’s look of despair,
play-acting for the camera,
from behind iron bars,
ensuring we remember.
Just in time for creamy seafood chowder,
well, Ian and I,
before chill darkness descends,
as we ride the cable car
up, and down, steep inclines.
Bell joyously
ding, ding, dinging
our way
to secure, deep slumber.
Or perhaps not quite so …