In Praise of Chinese Soup — by Peter Abbs

Because this morning you left at such a pace—
As you pulled on your winter coat
Not even time for a perfunctory kiss,

Shouting at the door a word I didn't get—
I forgot to tell you how much I love you.
I laboured all morning fretting the hours away

And lunched alone in a sunless kitchen finding
The Chinese soup you left. Absurd to say:
It was sublime. I had a second helping

And then, almost ashamed of my desire,
Kept going back to sip some more. I took a walk
Through the local woods. The wind was up;

A silver light flared through swaying branches.
Everywhere I looked rain-water glinted back;
Small birds flitted through bushes too quick

To catch—they were flying so fast a kind of chasm
Opened in my heart, a shaft so stark it had no end.
Rehearse death daily urge the Stoics. But today

I had no wish for the final tryst in the fable:
A last tick of the clock, the door opening
To no-one coming and no place else. I begged reprieve

And longed for the day to end: for you to be back
Taking off that winter coat, light warm on your face,
Two bowls of soup steaming on the table.