![]() SORE WOUNDS 1940A Poem by Terry Collett![]() A WOMAN IN A LONDON HOSPITAL IN 1940. SHE SI BLIND AND LEGLESS AND ATTNEDED TO BY A FRENCH DOCTOR![]() ![]() Comment allez-vous? Someone asks me in French. I am in pain, I reply in my remembered schoolgirl French, facing the area the voice comes from, searching out with my right hand, my blind eyes stare, wondering who was there. Je suis ici pour voir vos blessures, she says. I feel her hand, small and soft. She holds my hand gently. You are here for my wounds? I say, wondering if I heard her correctly, my French not as good as hers. Oui, she says. She lets go of my hand, and lifts up my nightgown, and feels my leg stumps, her fingers touching as she moves. She undoes the bandages slowly, unwrapping each leg stump, then I sense the air, and feel her fingers on my skin. I recall Clive touching me there, his fingers moving my thighs, his kisses there. Ils sont la guérison, she says. They are healing? I say, unable to see, but they still hurt, I utter in my poor French. La douleur va persister pendant un certain temps, she says, rubbing gently over the area where the wounds are. How long will they pain me? I say. She says it will be a while, and then re-wraps the bandages, and pulls down my nightgown. Then she goes. I hear voices over the way, a bell rings. I lie there, wondering what will happen next, remembering Clive making love to me that last time before he left for War. I feel with my fingers, the wounds, aching, sore. © 2016 Terry Collett |
StatsAuthor![]() Terry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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