There’s clay on my walking shoe tread
I’ve thread my way down the zig zag
to the local café after the storm, dodging
manuka overhang, dollops of clay clods
on the path

Of birdsong I hear little, just motor cars
tyres whizzing through water, a motorist
toots and I wave thinking it is my
granddaughter, who I never see now
but turns out not to be

The café is full of storm stories, one
man securing his chimney at midnight
a woman bemoans the branches 
while pointing out the sad widow man
whose dog died today

my poached eggs, solo each on sough
dough, lightly buttered, sit safely
cooked perfectly, a soy latte too
newspaper for the cryptic crossword
pen at the ready

the weather, the weather, our
summer, the road, the tide, the
sea, the road, the puddles, the
bush covered hillsides, slips
most of us lucky

someone speaks of insurance
two women huddle joyfully
out of earshot, chattering
the coffee maker thwacks
a glass tinkles

people come and go from
car to path to café, to chat
to shed their coats, shake
umbrellas, glance, greet
drink and eat

a place to meet, after the
storm