O Rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm,

That flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Hath found out thy bed

Of crimson joy;

And his dark secret love

Doth thy life destroy.

I was a fit, healthy, active 66 year old writer and peace campaigner, but some indefinable part of me knew that somewhere, somehow, something was seriously wrong. This poem by William Blake came out of the blue in February 2008 when I was asked to write anything I wanted during a neurology test. I had been referred to University College Hospital Neurology Clinic because of the worry that my worsening memory problems might reflect my mother’s history of dementia. Nothing of concern was found apart from hypertension. A reading of the loss of a stone in weight never reached my GP practice.