Philip has come
to the hospital
and taken me out
to the St James Park
near Big Ben;
(I was already dressed,
one of the nurses
dressed me).
We're near the pond
and ducks and swans,
he says.
I gaze to where he says
and see only blackness
through my blind eyes,
but I hear people
and voices and ducks.
I'm in a wheelchair;
he is sitting beside
me on a bench.
I feel his hand take mine:
how are your legs?
He asks.
The leg stumps
are painful,
I say,
they are some days
more than others.
He strokes my hand.
What are you doing
at the Foreign Office?
I ask.
Can't say,
hush hush stuff,
he says,
what with the War
on and that.
I turn to where he is
trying to give
an impression of sight:
do you really
like me?
I ask.
Of course I do,
he replies,
wouldn't be here
with you otherwise
would I?
I suppose not,
I say.
I feel his hand
hold mine gently.
Clive was like that
holding my hand.
But that was before
we had ***
and before he died
at Dunkirk.
Not just stringing me
along are you?
I say suddenly.
I wouldn't do that,
he replies,
what makes you think
I would or am?
Just wondering what
you see in a blind woman
without legs,
I say.
I think I love you,
Grace,
he says,
from that first time
I saw you.
Love me?
I say surprised,
staring through
blind eyes at him,
gathering each
of his words
into my mind.
Yes,
I do,
he says,
his voice more certain.
How do you feel
about me?
he asks.
I am unsure
and look away
into another darkness
and say:
haven't thought about that;
I have been in such
a state with the blindness
and losing my legs,
I haven't thought
about anything else.
He says:
of course you have;
I didn't mean
to cause you more stress.
He is silent
and I hold
his hand tighter
not wanting him
to go off.
You are kind
and have been
so helpful to me
and I should have thought
about you,
and I have,
but feelings are such
complicated things,
I am in different world,
I say.
I shut up
and I feel him
kiss my cheek,
and he says:
it is fine.
We sit and I hear
ducks and people
and his hand
stroking mine.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
Philip has come
to the hospital
and taken me out
to the St James Park
near Big Ben;
(I was already dressed,
one of the nurses
dressed me).
We're near the pond
and ducks and swans,
he says.
I gaze to where he says
and see only blackness
through my blind eyes,
but I hear people
and voices and ducks.
I'm in a wheelchair;
he is sitting beside
me on a bench.
I feel his hand take mine:
how are your legs?
He asks.
The leg stumps
are painful,
I say,
they are some days
more than others.
He strokes my hand.
What are you doing
at the Foreign Office?
I ask.
Can't say,
hush hush stuff,
he says,
what with the War
on and that.
I turn to where he is
trying to give
an impression of sight:
do you really
like me?
I ask.
Of course I do,
he replies,
wouldn't be here
with you otherwise
would I?
I suppose not,
I say.
I feel his hand
hold mine gently.
Clive was like that
holding my hand.
But that was before
we had ***
and before he died
at Dunkirk.
Not just stringing me
along are you?
I say suddenly.
I wouldn't do that,
he replies,
what makes you think
I would or am?
Just wondering what
you see in a blind woman
without legs,
I say.
I think I love you,
Grace,
he says,
from that first time
I saw you.
Love me?
I say surprised,
staring through
blind eyes at him,
gathering each
of his words
into my mind.
Yes,
I do,
he says,
his voice more certain.
How do you feel
about me?
he asks.
I am unsure
and look away
into another darkness
and say:
haven't thought about that;
I have been in such
a state with the blindness
and losing my legs,
I haven't thought
about anything else.
He says:
of course you have;
I didn't mean
to cause you more stress.
He is silent
and I hold
his hand tighter
not wanting him
to go off.
You are kind
and have been
so helpful to me
and I should have thought
about you,
and I have,
but feelings are such
complicated things,
I am in different world,
I say.
I shut up
and I feel him
kiss my cheek,
and he says:
it is fine.
We sit and I hear
ducks and people
and his hand
stroking mine.
A BLIND AND LEGLESS WOMAN IN LONDON WITH A MAN IN 1940
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