Work In Progress - Fragment 4 Poem by michael oliver

in the autumn sunshine
we found it empty
the answer we knew
was not then discovered
picking through the debris
the day confounded us
until footsteps of memory
reared an opinion

we all entrap pilgrimage
but Bunyan was out
the scenery of passing
caused illusions to falter
the moot hall erupted
the market green stretched
the journey became unsure
the shrine was lost

while groping for themes
a swollen oak bole
a grey moustache appeared
to him a love
interred under a wall
earth and sacrificed flowers
but forever a presence
together on the bench

as the voice ages
the grasp becomes faded
together a moments stillness
sitting with their love
the lowering sun seasons
the reminiscence of ardour
highlighting a true state
her ash his loss

there is no freedom
from the inbred pain
the gravestones are reminding
that day of grief
as the hole consumed
the life of happiness
the remainder of hope
lowered in the dirt

our memories are fragments
used as infill trouve
haphazardly in time's wall
mere odd surface anomalies
meaningless in their structure
their role made essential
as life' conceited metaphor
takes it's imagined shape

the windows are shut
the blinds are down
the shadows on show
a glimpse of shades
objects of their history
labelled roles in memory
the things here presented
a not here presence

so walled gardens sunlight
the fruit is ripening
and discourse of sparrows
drives an autumn idea
our moments not past
but we believe passed
but some 'manufactory' place
opens the locked limit

an outhouse with glass
a wooden door ajar
a few glazing bars
yet beyond the door
a shadowed through space
and besides the door
the window the opening
the shadow and beyond

Chris standing there outside
I watch him unobserved
after the shadowed space
the grey tailored raincoat
the instants subtle framing
the window, interior, door
the quanta's chosen punch
the moments inexplicable moment

all three lens passed
then imagined here forever
an object after discussion
a life has blossomed
constructed by the directions
of a few groupies
worshipping what they imagine
to be past glories

and is that it?
a moment is fixed
an object hand held
passed to and fro
hurled into time's melee
to grasp for breath
alone in its stillness
as we career away