As I turn my blind eyes
to the sun(I feel its warmth),
I think of the Degas paintings
that Clive took me to see
at a London gallery: the
colours and the figures and
the shades of blues and pinks.
Now it is just a memory, and
as I sit here in the hospital
grounds in the wheelchair,
I have a sudden panic knowing
I will never see again, never
see a rainbow or see a blossom
or see the sunrise, and know
that Clive will never come again,
not since his death at Dunkirk,
and that last kiss, that last time
of making love, and I know I
shall never make love again,
and feel with my hands to where
my legs used to be, and feel
the bandaged stumps, and feel
them there, my fingers moving
over them. The sun is still warm
on my head, and when I turn my
face to the sun, I sense a kiss from
a while ago, and will I kiss again?
I ask myself and I want to know.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
As I turn my blind eyes
to the sun(I feel its warmth),
I think of the Degas paintings
that Clive took me to see
at a London gallery: the
colours and the figures and
the shades of blues and pinks.
Now it is just a memory, and
as I sit here in the hospital
grounds in the wheelchair,
I have a sudden panic knowing
I will never see again, never
see a rainbow or see a blossom
or see the sunrise, and know
that Clive will never come again,
not since his death at Dunkirk,
and that last kiss, that last time
of making love, and I know I
shall never make love again,
and feel with my hands to where
my legs used to be, and feel
the bandaged stumps, and feel
them there, my fingers moving
over them. The sun is still warm
on my head, and when I turn my
face to the sun, I sense a kiss from
a while ago, and will I kiss again?
I ask myself and I want to know.
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