Poetry Map *Global for #StAnza21*: poem no. 389

Waking Up in San Francisco

Dawn cracks open morning,
streaks peach over night’s fading navy.
Out of the half-light, the Nightingale House
looms, gothic and ghostly.  No-one knows
what lies behind the closed blinds.

On the street below a lone car
prowls over unseen speed pillows
dips towards downtown.
Headlights stalk shadows
along apartment walls.

Far above the horizon,
the sky pales to washed-out denim.
Tree-lined hilltops
promise forest trails
among Giant Redwoods.

In the distance, the city stirs.
Trams rattle down Market Street,
tinny bells echoing in the crisp air.
The sun hesitates behind clouds
before a sudden downpour.

Angela Blacklock-Brown

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