UK Poet, Philosopher & Artist Ivor Griffiths' Official Website



Blue eyes, furrowed nasal bridge frown, caressed, coveted and possessed.

Running away from tragedy. Remedial action required, a thought wisp.

He knew, the third eye, it can help that piece of every one;

fall back to the one, the me, that is needed.

Not a creeper, a crawler manipulator – listening and walking

suspicious and constant is the interruption and irritation

disruption and cancellation of my thought processing.

Obstructive – a road block to progress. Obstructive a thought planter – limpet like

in the distraction of her destructive need to control, hurt and gloat

at the result.

Stamina is such that no amount of double Dutch code speak – “it’s a load of shite” -

response as a cover for blank faced stupidity would help.

A good mother? Probably, but so what?

What does that mean?

But the stone man is dreaming a dream of passing – passing –

still with me and him and her and them – all to one place – somewhere she is not.

The lad walked in, and she’s back again, desperate to interrupt and control the situation.

To make her voice heard – come what may – what is envy?

She knows: fear. Looking in the mirror and seeing time.

Snow falls slowly, methodically, gradually, smoothing it all out. The

trees, bushes, dustbins and plants merge with cars, even houses.

The frozen land that crept through leather soles to freeze skin flat.

In the memory he looked eighteen months old, unsteady toddler,

standing, staring at his wrist. It had a bandage wrapped around it,

tied to the cot, bright white enamel metal.

He cried.


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