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
I float above the sea
you fled, I watch the waves,
I bend to catch what’s left.
I break. It doesn’t matter.
I’m holding it inside my lungs
I try to slow down, move
only when I need to.
I don’t. It doesn’t matter.
Maybe this is power.
I half believe that.
I wanted to drown in you.
If I did, it doesn’t matter.
© All rights reserved. Nia Griffiths 2022.
Skies stretch over nothing.
Truth barrelling down at you,
white light and brazen beyond
God – when was the last time?
Words and silence arrive to
splutter the guts of the matter over me.
It was not you, not duality,
not love, not secrets.
Time bends and, softly,
reveals.
Midnight did not bring
your first sighting, Puss,
nor give the Owl his wings.
You are the sum of every hidden
moment and only half its
part, now.
Words and silence bind you up,
sentenced to myth and past.
There is just you, not duality,
not love, not secrets.
A loss of time, now fraction
found.
© All rights reserved. Nia Griffiths 2020.
N J Griffiths 