Another Sort Of Kiss 1940 Poem by Terry Collett

Philip has come
to wheel me
around St James Park.

I feel the warm sun
on my face.

He wheels me
in silence
along paths
I cannot see;
past people talking
then we come to a stop.

We're by the lake,
he says.

I can hear
the ducks,
I tell him.

I move my hand
along to my leg stumps
and pull the blanket
over them.

Are you
comfortable?
He asks.

Yes thank you,
I reply.

How are
the leg stumps?
He asks.

Healing
so I am told.

I stare in the direction
of his voice
with my blind eyes.

Good I'm glad,
he says.

There is silence
for a while;
I listen to the sounds
around me.

Grace I want
to ask you something,
he says.

I turn towards
where his voice is:
what is it?
I ask.

Would you
marry me?
He says softly.

Marry you?
I say bewildered,
you hardly know me
nor I you.

I know, but once
we get to know
each other better
would you?
He says.

I sense he is
leaning close to me.

Why would you
want to marry
a blind woman
without legs?
I ask.

I love you,
he says.

How can you
love me when you
don't know me,
I say irritably.

I love what
I do know,
he replies.

His hand
touches mine;
I feel it there
warm and soft.

how would you
cope with me?
And where
would we live?
I ask.

I will engage
a nurse at the start
until your legs are healed
and you can have
artificial legs;
we can buy a house
in the country,
he says convincingly.

Are you saying this
out of pity?

No of course not,
he says,
I love you.

He kisses
my cheek;
the first kiss
since Clive
kissed me last time
the morning the left
with his regiment
and died in Dunkirk.

I put my hand
where Philip
has kissed me.

I can promise nothing,
I say,
staring into darkness,
but maybe
if things turn out
as you say.

As I speak
my voice
sounds far away.