• Come on, colour me in.

    This canvas you left as a sketch.
    Blank, white, snowfall world,
    Barely visible the lines you left,
    As the colours began to unfurl.

    No sign read Michael Avenue,
    No train directed me where to go,
    I wanted to show you how much I grew,
    From the little girl you used to know.

    A little bit of red to fill my hair,
    And white would fill my skin,
    Blue would be perfect there,
    And black for the clothes I'm in.

    But you were never a Picasso,
    You couldn't even draw.

    Artistic though, but with your hands,
    You built the house you raised me in,
    Leaving us wasn't part of the plan,
    But you heard the angels sing.

    My tribute are these stolen words,
    Five or so years down the line,
    Assisted by the sound of birds,
    As wounds, they heal with time.

    A touch of paint on a polished stone,
    FATHER, HUSBAND, FRIEND TO ALL.

    No sign read Michael Avenue,
    No train directed me where to go,
    I wanted to show you how much I grew,
    From the little girl I used to know.