N J Griffiths

Tag: writing

  • 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

  • Update & Substack Link

    Hello to all those of you that frequent this blog and read the words I leave behind. I am gearing up to something at the moment, which I hope will be published in the next year. Until then, I will be posting here and on my Substack.

    All my love,

    Nia

  • 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.