Into Kabiur’s hand

To my younger self, optimistic and blind,
through the white-out of time,
where shadows played vividly on the walls of the cave,
here, take what I have.

To a brother who will not click reply to me,
through the digital white-out of time,
though intent on interring thirty years in the grave,
here, take what I have.

To my daughter, far away in the north country,
through the hills, the white-out of time,
though paths lie untrodden to the orange grove,
here, take what I have.

To the boy in rags beneath the Broadway lamppost,
brightly lit in the white-out of time,
though you won’t call me, or look up, beneath the wave,
here, take whatever I have.

To an irascible, unconfident father,
through the white-out threatening of those times,
through upbringing, labour, a lost past, you moved,
now here, take what I have.

To a mother’s years-long shuttered gaze,
through the white-out of time,
though sternly judgemental, there was nothing but love,
here, take what I have.