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Terry Collett Aug 2019
The artificial legs seem
like appendages,
and I feel
both sickened,
and yet pleased at last
to be able to get about again
without being
in the wheelchair.

They are attached
and then I am balanced,
a nurse either side.

I imagined
it would be easier,
but it is strange,
like being attached to objects
which move if I lift
and move I leg stumps.

I walk forward slowly,
the nurses at my side,
encouraging me on,
knowing I am blind.

This is it; this is how
it will always be now
if I want to walk.

It is learning
to walk again,
as I learnt
as  a little girl,
with the falls
and missteps
which came then.

I walk onward,
one step at a time,
learning to throw
the leg stump,
balancing as I go.

Philip will be pleased
when he comes,
seeing me walk,
seeing me eye to eye,
not looking down
at the wheelchair.

After a while
the nurses
suggest I rest;
I want to keep on,
but I sit,
not an easy task,
and try to accept
the legs will
be there now;
no longer promises,
but attached,
new limbs;
how it always will be,
my old legs,
damaged beyond repair,
no longer there.

— The End —