Dam

My bright and shining boy is dead,
The prop of my old age!
I sit and weep, I hold his head,
And my tears are tears of rage.

He’d only gone to fetch me food,
As he does from time to time,
From that little town beyond the wood.
Is foraging then such a crime?

His poor dear arm is such a sight,
Or the socket where it used to lie,
For they’ve ripped it from its socket quite.
Bleeding, he came home to die.

So tonight I’m going back to get it.
I’ll search through all their little town.
There shall be no peace, no quiet respite
For the scum who laid my Grendel down!

Iain Muir lives (most of the time) in a town on the shores of Botany Bay. He tries to write science fiction, fantasy, and poetry in between catching flights to consult with clients.

Find more by Iain Muir in the Author Index.

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