Vermilion

Raw amnesia like mornings,

like pillows, your hair falling,

spilling into weeks. 

Can you see the words 

I leave for you? A trail

in light, likeness in the linseed,

vermilion in turpentine. I close 

the windows. Watch my hands

pluck memory from carpet strands

I stand too close, I see too much

I ask to forget and then – 

 – morning again – clear

and wretched

and almost beyond thought.

© Nia Jane Griffiths 2024