I find a white canvas in our storage locker:
the penciled shapes of roses
I sketched all those years ago
in Grandad's Mossley Hill garden,
a painting begun and never finished,
the ghost of a bass line awaiting
a lead guitar and piano,
the wail of a blues singer.
I carefully place the canvas
back in our locker, wonder if I will
ever paint for you the red and yellow
of Grandad's masquerade roses.
By Christopher T. George