By Samuel Rye
Artwork by Mary Callaway
For Adam, named like the first man,
plucked from the garden as all persons are.
Deceitful it was of the deity
that cast you back all the while from afar
with an act of cruel faithless piety
sent to wander skies’ ghostly Alcázar
to live out tethered to those stars above,
or gardens concealed beyond that thereof.
The gift of life was a double-edged sword
whose hilt shattered and splintered the silent bearer
until lifeblood silently poured.
Though face wore innocence, dreams were violent
as death with his horse galloped the ford;
bravest little boy, rode up, defiant.
How futile these words to your memory!
my brother child, swept from life unwary.
I entertain the thought in selfish mind
of us being washed up on selfsame shore
in that setting sun that frequents mankind
we’d find Charmouth fossils’ spiralling core,
spinning and spinning atop the fine sand
where I lie down. A glance skyward reveals
by the parting of clouds you come at day.
For Adam, wherever guiltless spectres play.