Sat squatting

javelin in hand,

sword in sheath,

leather soaking,

cloak draping wet,

coiled on the ground.

Sandals sweating

blistered heals from his walk,

this lonely sentry

far away from home:

the warmth of Rome;

the baths,

the laughs,

the games,

the vestal virgins.

Now cursing these tin islands,

under an Emperors rule.

The wind that's battered him,

piercing through his legionnaire armour.

Shelters by a tree

wishing an exchange of duty

perhaps to the Borders to walk the wall,

instead of the fells.

Tired now he bows his head

praying to Mithras for easy sleep

and always dreaming,

his thoughts in Latin.