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A SONG OF LEGIONS

Then the Legions turned from Britain On the long white road to Caul From the purple patterned heather Bound tight against the Wall. The Little Painted Peoples Ran shadows through the grass As they clawed aside the branches To watch our Eagles pass. The gallant, vanquished Eagles With their faces turned toward home, The proud and polished Eagles That led the shields from Rome. The blazing day flung glory From each rank of tilted spears And the Cohorts sang of Roma As their thoughts rolled back the years. The salt sweat burned the callous Where the wet straps tugged and tore And each shift of shield and armour But seemed to cut the more. This land was Rome's and Romans held it Though the black seas bit the beach, And wing-helmed through ice and snow whorls Came those of alien speech. Huge men and brave in combat Yellow-haired and raiders all; But they dropped sail once near Vectis And we pinned them near the Wall. Good blades and mighty axemen And they met us knee to knee, But our sullen, dark browed Legion Turned and flung them back to sea. Yes, they tossed their sails and left us Bruised and battered, bloody, numb Yes, we whipped them, whipped them, whipped them But they never ceased to come! They'll come again and take this All this bleakly lovely shore; The Picts can never stop them And the Eagles soar no more. For the Legions turn from Britain And their half-completed task - Rome's will - there is no question That a soldier dares to ask, Dares to ask or stops to wonder - There is no Law but Rome! But the land my comrades died in The Legions called it - home.

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EXPLANATION

God knows it has been centuries Since I last heard The keen, ecstatic trumpet of your voice. Ages since I last knew The wistful softness of your mouth on mine. (Ah God! Warm mouths that clung and searched!) Your poised triumphant fingertips That traced erotic ecstacies Through the heater amber hollows ... Curious that time. The stately cadence of the days and hours and centuries. Should be so wholly you - Days that moved in an avalanche Of crashing, colorful emotion Have become rhythmic, pendulemated Grey hammers on my soul. Hours once etched With the gold tracery of your laughter Are pallid indecencies That cling and will not go. All things are dead now you have gone. The lean cats of squalor Run patterns beneath my feet. It is not just that I Who have lived emotion Should have it stifled By the slim white hands I so adore And cannot forget. Better the agonies Of your swift, dear fingertips Playing raptly, certainly On the raw nerve keys of my soul Than - nothing. Have you forgotten - Have your forgotten - The body's heat beneath the palm. The mouth that kissed Each cool, delightful fingertip The while they traced Each tear and tear and sun and You-cut wrinkle On the face beneath - Have you forgotten Write here an epitaph! He diced the Fates And, having lost He could not laugh But took his heart, annealed Through close association with a dream. And broke it. And watched the thin, scincillating scarlet dust Float slowly down Beneath one inch of pine Beneath a cotton flag He lies alone, The mad, tired mind at rest Of the strident bugle Echoed the laughter of those With whom he diced.