A Roman Soldier Reflects

Not the Picts with their painted torsos Not the head hunting Celts, either Who wants to conquer a land Where every bog breeds midges? On Hadrian’s Wall it has rained for 20 days Everything’s clammy and cold The cough in my chest rattles A wolf entered the consul’s villa last night Drusilla is one child less Nine months and her labour wasted I am an important man, Marcus, the son of Gaius Even you must have heard of me! A thousand soldiers march when I give the word At night I dream of olive groves and sun But wake to the bleary mists Of the Hell that is Caledonia One day, my head may sit On a Druid’s spike A dripping gourd, sticky With blood and flies