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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