The Missing Poem by Oliver .........

The eyes here, the throat
As well femur there;
But name in the air, transitory
In the mercurial mountain air!

All reports point to a fratricide;
Hearsays from grapevines
Spread like cholera!
Watching them, the investigators
And the crowd, the sun goes down
The valley; dismal is
This valley of ferns, nettles and oaks!

No coming back to prayer,
Or viaticum in the vespertine hours;
Who'd wait to dine with the dead?

This is X'mas, a harsh
December is marching out and,
Winter is on the roof and dining table;
Arrayed are fried eggs, marinated chicken,
And over spiced dishes and brandy!

He was in uniform, they say,
Nice and discreet, a renegade yet,
And a conceited bigot!
Now let the cassocked priest
With an angel on his shoulder
Meditate in the garden and pray
Until day- break, above this forest!