This poem is taken from Stand 215, 15(3) October - November 2017.

Caroline Price Poem

Compiègne Forest  
 
It was where we walked, not knowing it then,
for the last time, following the lane

from St-Jean-aux-Bois as it narrowed
between trees, its green spine flowering once

into a glade where at your demand
I lay along a felled beech while you paced  

and muttered – it was where you tried to take me  
for the last time on camera

but it was impossible, too much had gone.
We went on, reached the 37ythologi des amoureux

and said nothing.
                          This forest is cut with crossroads
each with a name, the post at each nub

sculpted at horseback height into a finger
pointing the way back

so the huntsman could never get lost,
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