‘On a good day’
By Bruce Stephenson
Turning into Lower Cuba Street, the gale is at our backs.
You laugh at her mocking declaration that you can’t beat
Wellington on a good day.
She wears that flimsy blue trench coat. It’s proving no match
for Old Man Southerly. The hood of your jacket remains down
in sympathy with her sodden curls.
Nearing Wakefield Street, the rain worsens.
Taking her arm, you find shelter in a shop doorway.
Rain sluices the street until it shines.
She nuzzles against your body in gratitude for its warmth.
Heartened, you slip a hand beneath her coat front.
Your fingers find comfort in wool and the promise of more.
Elation. Her body responds to your touch.
But is that laughter you hear?
You fumble for an apology as she points to the shop window.
A sign promotes camping and hiking gear:
“Now is the Discount of our Winter Tents”.
A thread of appreciation weaves its way into your budding relationship.
You cling together, becalmed in a tide of fondness.
The torrent performs a Mexican wave.
This is Wellington on a good day.