N J Griffiths

Tag: personal

  • 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

  • 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.

  • Colours

    The man, after all of it, 

    watched on. Colours shimmered 

    in the blue of his eyes, 

    free of that darkened hue.

    He grinned a giant’s grin, 

    felt calm, felt free. 

    He, at last, saw himself

    reflected in minds and in hearts,

    in the memories of that perfect crowd ;

    of laughter

    of coffee shops

    of flowers deep in bloom 

    and of those tiny little moments that scatter into life. 

     

    © All Rights Reserved. Nia Griffiths 2019.

  • Bursting

    I watch him from above; 

    A tapestry of life rolling out

    on the tiny panel floor beyond.

     

    Through the darkness,

    I see his brows cloud over,

    pursing his lips with thought.

    I watch the tiny scattering moments,

     burst out, idly, into shadow.

     

    I clamber down into his world.

    I kiss his darkened eyes.

    If I could calm each voice and fingertip

    that curves his silent veins

    There would not be a word 

    that was not mine,

    nor a single undefined touch.

     

    To bring the sun in one perfect moment,

    one sweep of sugared salvation

    I’d give a universe of time.

    And yet my sacrifice is boxed

    And bound

    to short bursts of light

    alone.

     

    © All Rights Reserved. Nia Griffiths, 2019