Author Wilfrid Wilson Gibson Old time is playing his pranks With me, and I'm losing grip, Surely, when out of my memory Such things are beginning to slip— When I, who never forgot Aught that my heart had heard, Talking to grandson's youngest, Misremembered the name of a bird. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments