Although Blind 1940 Poem by Terry Collett

I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.

My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.

Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.

It's Guy.

I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.

Hello, Guy,
how are you?

I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.

I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.

He is silent;
his hand touches mine.

Enough of me,
how are you?

I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.

How are they
treating you?
He asks.

Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.

How do you manage?
He asks.

I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.

His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.

I miss that.

Making love.

Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.

How's Donald?

He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.

I see, I say,
although don't.

Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.

I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.

Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.