Writer's Note: I haven't written any poetry in ages, but it's one of those nights with the rain pattering on outside and good music playing.

Time. A capital T-i-m-e. Time.

That was what preoccupied those wide avian eyes and ruffled those feathers.

Clutch at it as you might, oh feathered friend, it shan’t stay yours for forever.

The ticking of autumn to winter

and from winter onward to spring

then summer.

Cease.

It will not.

You may try to hide it, but time can never be lost – just ‘not found’.