Keith Douglas, what to bring
but empty hands, how to adorn
a skeleton stripped and the polished
stone where lichen fails to cling?
I have seen poems left on graves,
seen photographs, sea-shells, wooden
crosses pinned with poppies,
seen scattered where young actors lie
the bric-à-brac of love, and I
bring nothing and my eyelids itch.
(from 'At Keith Douglas's Grave', Strange Land)