Tombstones

Small white labels, like tiny tombstones,

Lay half-hidden in beds, words indecipherable.

Reminders of gems once bought 

with passionate infatuation, or grown from tight hard seeds,

nurtured in the steam of the greenhouse, named by hand,

tucked into the soil with home-made compost.

For a season we check on them, pull soft slugs

off tender leaves, ward off invading neighbours

that threaten to obscure the sun. Then somehow

our attention turns to other loves, new, exciting.

We forget, until years later we find their graves

under weeds or soil or rampant friends.