Thylacine - Cathy Davey

I was dreaming of you, thylacine

The last of so many

You were pulled by the moon

But she won’t find you in this room

Of iron and concrete

Oh we’re ordinary, made of mud, made of clay

Pull the night over me

For a moment you’re home

From the seed to the shoot

We sever every root

A dislocated limb

With no words to convey

It swam about you all day

And bubbled like a hymn

Oh we’re ordinary, made of mud, made of clay

Pull the night over me

I can’t see you

Oh we’re ordinary, made of mud, made of clay

Pull the night over me

For a moment

You’d better believe from the ground we’re released

No amount of concrete will unbind us

Oh we’re ordinary I am mud you are clay

Momentarily she will find us