The Workings Of A Clock... Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

A wingless thing, naked and caged,
watches through a keyhole
all those what-could-have-been
flowering on the other side.
Afraid to be a swan —
pledged to one love, one sky —
It tells itself there will be time,
always time to unpick the lock,
to wind the spring, to lift,
to open into the air.
But the mechanism stiffens.
The stopped heart ticks on anyway,
keeping perfect count
of everything it didn't do.