“you will be a fugitive and a wanderer
on the earth”—Genesis 4:12
A voice is echoing from the caves.
The ground is whispering, “Abel.”
There is ringing in his ear.
Domed brow wrinkles, a mark
that binds him to life by death.
In the river sands, which lead
through estuaries out to brooding sea,
he wanders, mourning; seeking
the spoor of Neandertal,
buried tenderly in flowers.
Flowers to bloom again in the rising light.
A dim mind wrestles, wondering
what fruit will be born
out of soil made rich
with a brother’s blood.