By: Emma Jacklin
When chattering folk take the gate,
And the drowsy lambs lamely blate,
As open hours draw to a close,
While hollow darkness, sunlight swallows.
Where crumbled ruins and earth converge,
The crooning ghosts of Vindolanda emerge.
As phantoms trapped, they rise in wrath
Caught in time with the old battle past.
Once a teeming barrack now idle and cold,
A legion lost with no garrison to hold.
Ancient troops of Roman and of Gaul
Seek the olden oath to serve at Hadrian’s Wall.
On steeds of wind and darken night,
They ride the moors in crave to fight
In a mystic land beyond their archaic fort,
Where brutal barbarians lie in wait to thwart.
To trust their gladius and weary command,
The Republic’s fatal flaw; no faith in their hand.
From the native land and Celtic blood.
Ascends the Epic Spirit from Britain mud,
He sweeps across valley and Munro,
To the desolate Roman remains, He the hero.
For what but ghosts could survive all
The unco sights found at Hadrian’s Wall.
Comentários