Alex Josephy

The Signs

Two snowflakes.

Remember
the pinch of frost,
our wayard fall, the drift
in which there was no-one
the same as you.

Crossed lines.

Possibilities
diverge. At the high pass
all roads belong to you,
so long as you don’t know
which road to take.

Hillside with falling rocks.

Nothing
will stay the same, however fast
you drive. Cities mirage, wobble
into cloud, hills arch crests,
the road behind’s rubble.

Leaping deer.

At last
we’re clear of the woods.
Leave tarmac to its ways;
every swerve we invent
is part of the dance.

Metamorphosis

I wake to find our corner shop has changed
again –this time, estate agents:

young men, six-legged
…………….in plastic swivel-chairs
place bets, risk online poker between calls.

Before the makeover, it was wreathes
and Sunday roses; before that,

a rag-dealer’s yard.
…………….Joists all rotted away,
they had to excavate; down in the cellar,

close to the footings, their spades turned up
this skeleton: the rag-and-bone man’s mare,

a sketchy template of a horse, gleaming
in dirty ivory, still wearing the remains

of harness. No-one could remember
the name of the bloke who drove her

round our streets, only his two-tone cry,
‘Iy-oh!’ over the clop of hooves.

I was at work that day, wasn’t there to see
…………….if they lugged her to the dump
on a bier of broken masonry.

……………I wake to find it wasn’t so; that mare
shook loose the mouldy bridle, stepped clear

of the rubble, walked away
…………….into the mazy city, changed
……………………….our street’s negative equity
…………….for another story.