Late October dawning, mist hangs low in woodland
Fading is the season, beech and oak leaves falling
Tangled are the brambles, overgrown and berried
Spider in her leaf-hide, sees her web bejewelled
Drowsy cattle standing, breath and wet flank steaming
Sunrise gleams on water, streamlet coldly flowing
Wasted grasses leaning, trampled under hoofprint
Fern and mosses greening, close by wall of sandstone
Early sings the sparrow, yarrow flowers whiting
Sluggish flies the bee now, nectar scarce inviting
Owl in tall tree sleeping, shuns the day awaking
Fox in earthen breastwork, sated now from hunting
Rabbit sniffs the morning, burrow mouth beguiling
Scent of mould and mushroom, undergrowth pervading
Fallen tree trunk rotting, spotted red with fungus
Naked roots stand grasping, fingers locked in death throe
Down in dew washed meadow, foal lies red and stillborn
Sadly stands the old mare, one year past her blessing
Nevermore to call home her stallion by evening
Hidden in the hawthorn, by blood-red berries dripping
Carrion crow watches, waiting for her leaving
Patience is his virtue, soon to know the feeding.

She gazed out through steamy panes
to where rain mirrored
indoor moisture, running down
sheer glass sheets
in tiny light-riven rivulets
to pool in cold futility
on sill and ledge.

She could not remember
how long she'd been here;
indeed, she was not entirely sure
of time’s passage at all,
measuring life merely
by periods of dark or light,
humidity or aridity.  

Of course, everyone here
was pretty much the same,
here in this white-tiled purgatory
where endless days merged
into non-existent seasons,
and the world turned slowly
on a rusting showerhead.

A newcomer jostled her suddenly,
anxious for a glimpse
of some fancied nirvana
outside the crying windows;
“Do you come here often?”
he asked hopefully,
trying to peer beyond her.

Scarcely admitting his presence,
she continued gazing
into the abstract distance,
answering as only
sentient slime-mould can;
“Me?" she shrugged,
"I only come here for the condensation."

Bleak winds scour empty wastes
where dust devils spin insanely
along bone-dry creek beds.
Above in featureless skies
a blind sun hides behind
a cataract of thin, high cloud.

On the flanks of a long-dead volcano
a flock of small, red finches
takes to the air like a noxious gas.
Small hardy flowers have found a home here,
attracting iridescent insects
that flit like ancient sparks.

And in a shadowed cleft of rock,
hidden from those who would hunt,
a mother guards her mewling cub.
Dark stripes mark tan, lithe flanks
as ever-alert eyes glitter,
hard as the blackest of lava.

Were she capable of mockery,
she might howl in triumph
at those who believe her extinct.
Yet for the present she awaits Mankind’s destruction,
knowing then that the thylacine
will reclaim their ancestral lands.