Following The Blind 1959 Poem by Terry Collett

You saw Anne crutching herself
across the lawn as you came out
of the French windows. Sister Paul
was calling after her, but Anne had

crutched further away, her back to
the nun who seemed to stiffen with
anger. You came up beside the nun
and she looked down at you with her

dark eyes. You seem to have some
influence with Anne, tell her I need
her to see the doctor in 5 minutes,
she said. You nodded and said: I'll do

my best Sister, but you know what
she's like once her mind is made up
about something. The nun looked
down the lawn where Anne had sat

herself in one of the white metal chairs
and looked towards the avenue of trees.
Tell her it is about her leg, the nun said
to you, and stormed off, her black habit

flapping like a blackbird learning to fly
and failing. You walked down to where
Anne was sitting and sat beside her in
another white chair. Where's the penguin

gone? Anne said. Inside again, you said,
wants you to see the doctor about your leg.
Anne gazed at you and rubbed her leg stump
with her hands. I'm not see any fecking

quack about my leg; all he wants is to
have a gawk and have a feel, she said.
Maybe he's got your new leg, you said.
Feck the leg, she said, looking at her leg

stump where she had pulled up her skirt.
I want my old leg back, not a fecking
pretend leg, she said. You stared at her
stump. But your old leg as gone, you said,

at least you could walk without a crutch
and not be pushed everywhere, you said.
She sighed: all right I'll go see the old fart,
but you come with me Kid or I see no one,

she said. Ok, you said, and helped her up,
and she crutched herself back up the lawn
towards the nursing home sour faced, with
you following, the blind following the blind.