You're a soppy cunt Mick but I love you!

Oh, for one more glimpse of that warm Californian sun. You burnt me but I forgave you, I hope you forgave me for my misguided preconceptions of the people you bathe everyday. When I hid from you under the pier whilst others were praying for your bounty I felt guilty for our time together was short but my Irish skin pleaded for me to stay. I was in awe as you beat a path up the Pacific Coast Highway through various places along the way like Big Sur and Long Beach and L.A. and Santa Monica and Santa Barbara and Monterey and Santa Cruz and finally San Francisco where the Colt cast it's shadow over our disoriented souls. We settled on Mission while you were hours away. You weren't as fierce in this city and my skin peeled under a straw trilby and long trousers. I'd like to imagine you tried your hardest to raise the temperature but to no avail this land being a peninsula, the water keeping you from glory. I remember you did come out one day while we were on the Embarcadero waiting to play Al Capone. When we headed home to Huntingdon you followed us back like a puppy who had taken a liking to us. Martha Wainwright and Snow Patrol figured heavily in the soundtrack to your direction. We spent a lot of time face to face once I'd grown accustomed to yours and I was happier for it. I miss the way you shone on us in the state you made golden.