This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Caroline Price Poem
This poem was published in Stand vol. 15, no. 3 with errors, for which the editors apologise. The poem is reproduced here in its correct form.

 
Compi è gne 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 carrefour 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
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