The spring light bathes the ancient Celtic fort,
a forgotten tump sat atop a peak.
Nondescript, no markings of which to speak,
yet within its walls are tales of a sort.
The Romans on the plain would try and thwart
the tribe from the woods playing hide and seek.
Against the legion their prospects were bleak,
but on top of the hill they held court,
decided to make the forest their shield.
Subterfuge became their weapon of choice,
they'd strike and disappear into the green
to the phalanx of Rome they'd never yield.
A sentry on the hill yells at full voice,
the army approaches but not unseen.
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