7 JULY 1990, Page 32

A Winter Monument

No stone, no cross, no consolatory phrase — For fifty weeks in any normal year You wouldn't guess that someone's buried here Under the casual cover of the grass, Until in February for ten days or so A space identifies itself, new flowers assume In the grave's shape a short-lived kingdom come, Letting their heads curve down, like question marks, Leaving you wondering, none the wiser, who, How long ago, Chose to commemorate what warmth of love In snow.

J. R. Maddicott