This poem was posted on the MND Facebook site. It's written by a sufferer for her husband.
Hi, I was diagnosed with Bulbar onset MND in June and have struggled to get my head around it. I have been trying my best to stay positive and manage to do that most of the time but there are occasions when it is overwhelming. So far I only have speech and mild swallowing problems. I am sure everyone goes through the same feelings and worries as me about the future. I wrote this little poem for my lovely husband and thought I would share it with you
A quiet voice, each day more slurred.
Repeating words that no-one heard.
The fear of errant crumbs, acute.
Life's nectar on a different route.
I worry that the floor will disappear
as i take to a chair, and I greatly fear
that my hand won't again hold a pen.
My life's changed so much, but then
I still have you, and for that I'm glad.
Life's too short for feeling sad.
I smile each day for you and kids
but night times always open lids
on the terrors that may well unfold.
Hope it's wrong, but I fit the mould.
I close my eyes, and right on cue
I cry inside for me and you
With positivity I intend to fight.
Will keep on smiling, but not at night.
For that's my time to cry for you.
You're the one who gets me through.
'A Quiet Voice..." poem by Anne Hopewell
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler Yeats
Sent by Fiona on 25/09/2017
Thank you for setting up this memorial to Val.
We hope that you find it a positive experience developing the site and that it becomes a place of comfort and inspiration for you to visit whenever you want or need to.
Sent by Motor Neurone Disease Association (MND) on 21/09/2017