Carried Away

There's one, in the dark, where a foreign white wall                                                         

blocks out some faint light. 

In an hour, the sun will look both ways before rising,                                                     

and the tasmanian tiger will heighten her senses. 

She steps forward now though, in the thinning remnants of the night, 

 and her four feet multiply. 

A cub, weeks old,                                                                                                           

lifts its level head behind her. 

The two look up at the fading stars in their sky together,                                             

and count twice as many as yesterday. 

In half an hour, her cub will crack a twig.                                                                     

Or maybe it was the crunch of some leaves.                                                                                                                     Or her yawn.

It won't matter-                                                                                                   

heavy, hurried boots will take over the sounds in the air and- 

She will be carried away. 

But for now, she licks her baby,                                                                                                      and wanders through the thinning grass,            

where rabbit traps and railway lines have replaced the fires and the freedoms of the first people.