Time bustles past and already too fast to stop you are whizzed along on her conveyor belt,

Wanting to get off, but now no more able to do so than before.

The days that are a bore – drag - and every second drips long and slow, a form of tap torture.

Now, with little time to spare, time is a gem,

A precious stone, that has slipped through the fingers with seconds left to find her again.

There is now reason to despair, that every spare second so easily slips away down her drain.

The same drain that leeches away the hours as if they were moments,

A blink of an eye, another hour gone by. Why?

So sitting here to write this is bliss,

Savouring time even as she skids by,

No longer caring for the why,

Making this moment still, fossilised in these words,

Time will be heard.

Her ‘quick, quick, slow’ movement, the dance that is time, for this precious page is arranged -

In this place, time is space.