Quite Alone 1940 Poem by Terry Collett

It is morning.
I heard birds sing earlier.

Used to look out
and see them
before my blindness.

The ward is busy,
voices calling,
bodies rushing past,
smell of disinfect
and body waste.

I lay back on the pillow
and wait for someone
to put me on the commode
and see how
my leg stumps are,
they ached something
awful in the night.

I hate being dependant
on others, that nurse
in the night I had to call
seemed rushed and said
of a terrible air raid
with many casualties.

Near here? I asked.

Jam factory, girls burnt
or injured in the blast,
the nurse had said.

I wonder if Philip
will come?

Each day seems
a slide down a long
dark tunnel with no light
to welcome, just an echo
of voices calling for me
from empty chambers
and cries from bodiless
voices as I slip by.

I need the commode,
I call, as a body rushes by,
swish of uniform,
won't be long,
a voice replies.

Hands pull back
the blankets, lift me
and undress me
and place me
on a throne,
then leave me,
quite alone.