Valhalla

The Old Man sits on carven throne,
His shoulders slumped, his bearing slack.
His eye is dull, and glazed.
From his mouth, ice gleams on drool's track
It is cold here.

Sable wings beat against cold night
Twin ravens swoop through the empty hall
The Old Man stirs, his eye gelams bright,
His shoulders strighten, his spine grows tight
As Thought and Memory return.

Iain Muir was born in London, and has since then dived in Mauritius, raced cars on dirt roads through African cane fields, been robbed in German pubs, and now resides in a city on Botany Bay. He still  spends too much on reading material, but drinks less red wine, and for some reason the motorbike gets less use than it used to. He plans on getting rich the old-fashioned way: by winning the lottery.

Every now and then, he edits the poetry section of Aphelion.

Find more by Iain Muir in the Author Index.

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