Captured in black and white by brother Michael,
Liverpool lad picking guitar in his back garden,
on the precipice of fame, offbeat, caught through
Mumís swaying net, naive below a line of washing;
Scouse washday, Dolly Blue, girls make dollies
out of clothes pegs, la da da, la da da, la dee dee.
Still living with Dad; the curtains hid the pain
of Ma dead with breast cancer six years before.
Wash hanging in the cold snap of Mersey yards,
the snot on a neighbor's blanket; humming a tune,
lad who vaulted over creosoted fences on Booker
to deliver the evening Echo to my Uncle Bill,
who yelled out at "our kid" from the corpy estate.
Strum a tune, pick a tune, strike a blues rhythm,
mmm, la da da da, la da da da, la da da dee dee.
Christopher T. George
In the Backyard: