This is not a poem
but a picture that I see
of our trip to find a forest
but a sign we did not see;
but I did see a chaffinch
singing in the tree.
This is a road map
with the northern track
that continued into distant green
across the expanding green;
each road we tried in turn
returned us to our dream.
And this, a picture of you
adamant to tell
was it under Bower Hill
where the horizon fell.
While I ask a stranger
walking through a door
where is Epping forest
but he wasn’t sure.
We climbed up Station Hill
searching for the town
finding a little bakery
where we settled down.
Conversing with two ladies
waiting for a bus,
they had passed it recently
in a kind of rush.
Behind where you were sitting
a mirror on a wall
catching my reflection
in the shadows growing tall.
Slouching in your chair
engaged in conversation
we’re looking for Epping Forest
we came via Epping station?
