N J Griffiths

Tag: improv

  • Freudenberg

    That grey-scale paperweight town still

    lies heavy on my mind.

    Thrust upon an ocean of gold

    and cherry leaves, it stood silent

    and unfinished;

    an outline of houses made with

    oil-black ink

    waiting for the warmth of

    paint.

    Some will tell you

    that if you head east

    towards the sun-warmed hills,

    the sketched out town will

    stare you down;

    row after row

    of asymmetric triplets,

    watching.

    I remember looking in,

    from afar.

    Thinking that the people there

    must echo the measured monochrome;

    tiny paper beings of

    ink, and soot.

    Or, if they didn’t,

    that it would be my task

    to turn to ash.

  • Improv

    In the sway of the blues

    that followed,

    I think I remember

    a cry. Separate from the

    melody and in memory

    a beat

    which danced amongst

    the guitar strings.

     

    And if I were to listen

    closely,

    intimately,

    I think I might

    hear the bars,

    which surrounded it,

    pause;

     

    wait for some

    small thing

    that never quite

    returns.

     

    Nia Griffiths, 2017

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