So still, he waits, the Roman soldier;
a melting mist lays pearls among his hair,
but the early morning light dissolves
the dream of possibility
as I stand within that arc of sky.
Beyond the curve of tender hills
the leaves of Autumn guard
his waiting horse, as the clink of harness
scatters silence, letting loose
the start of day.
A cold and fickle wind touches briefly
the waiting boy, and passes on.
Between enfolding hills coiled river loops preserve
Trimontium where it lies beneath the ground,
and buzzards, on ancient thermals
match silhouettes on the stubble fields below,
until the failing light drops shadows
of the future, to hang cold, between the trees.