The Thylacine

From black to gold to black to gold to black
Adrift in the worn brush of wild’ness past
Not seen, not heard, not pawed upon soft grass,
No prey to catch, to chase through pitch and burrow,
The rotten stump, a boarder jet and blond,
No more remunes, for breath and sigh is lack.
Unseen amidst the wood and leafed wrack,
No rush to feast, no rush to hide from row.
Transfigured now but on a yellowed sheet,
The gold made white, no longer fur but line,
An acetate and alkaline marked brine,
The only echo left, long past last bleat.
Unless the beast still prowl, one fight is all to show:
A frayed print against forgetting’s undertow.