There was more to the story and less
than previously said.
The details sometimes intrude on my reverie.
But shall their baring bring respite now?
I rode back in a daze from the forest of Compiegne.
in my boots seeped blood profusely, crimson red.
But I was confused thought it was the stallion who
rubbed me against trees.as I been warned he would.
But was it out of hubris or rider’s pride that
led me to persist in this Amazonian dare?
In seeming male allegiance with the stallion
the grooms guffawed at my disheveled state.
As a guest at the Chateau the situation was fraught
with awkwardness it would be more prudent
to return to Paris than being seen.
I attempted to cover drying blood on my breeches
from prying eyes on train ride back to hotel.
Other thoughts began to occur to me as
explanation that cleared stallion of fault.
What was left for me to do was to elaborate a new life
for the one eschewed, which I had elaborately observed
played out by the blonde single mother in the Hotel Montparnasse.
Searing pride would not allow me to contact you then
though the most joyous day of my life had been when
in a letter you had offered to divorce your wife.
I ran to the forest of St Germain nearby to read it alone
But I had not heard from you in months and now?
How to forge a new life without the life I thought I had.
On my return I found your yellow roses in my room,
I had forgotten it was my 16th birthday!
I strew them around in a rage in a cloud of petals
but managed to save a single one to press
in memory of this day. I wonder if I have it still?
The pain is mostly gone and I smile at my silliness now.
And wonder whether it was necessary now to recall.
Did not tell even you, for six more years and when I did,
you wept. In the intervening years silence grew around
the subject that I began to wonder if you had forgotten it,
or perhaps had began to think it a fiction, not happened at all?
And even I, began to doubt…