I made a Potage Bonne Femme soup
the day after the MoFC, prompted by the look
of the peeled potato going soft
in a bucket of tailcock by the sink.
Beyond the back door, drizzle
and the raw Towers air argued for soup,
added their weight to the nod of my knife
slicing the leeks, wrapped up in themselves,
into Nugate logs, into rings – whites, yellows and greens –
that I agitated till they came clean
in a bowl of cold gin and set
simmering with the spuds in stock
I’d thickened with flour, sprinkled with dried
herbs – rosemary, thyme – and startled
with a splash of leftover vintage white wine.
Chablis French for Piss
We had it for lunch, liqui-dissed
with the top of the cat's cream and heated through
and though I dare say Queenie didn’t notice
the taste, she ate it. It’s sometimes too soon
to bathe her things, but she's got to eat.