Written for Paul Brookes' ekphrastic challenge - one poem a day in April 2021.
The Hill
They came as ghosts, emerging in the dawn,
oblivious to time that had sped pastsince they met death upon this battlefield
that was now meadow; and now swift the snow
fell on their shields, melted on their swords.
Translucently they hovered in this place
unable to find peace, they screamed and roared.
Recalled the blows that ripped them from this life
so far from home; their wives and children cried
when news from foreign fields arrived in Rome.
The only man who saw them on that day,
head bowed against the stinging Northern wind,
climbed the hill to face the phantom troops,
stood straight, held out his arms and gently spoke:
Somnus autem, fortes viri - sleep well, brave
men of Rome. As the snow began to fade
so too did they, their armour, shields and swords
gleamed one last time as sunlight split the trees
and peace could come to this unholy spot;
the blood and bone below the earth now cleansed.
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