Echoes of Ochre

Tasmanian dusk, a canvas vast,

Where thylacine shadows danced.

Stripes of ochre, lightning-fast,

A silent hunter, ever-tranced.

But progress marched, a callous tread,

Left dreams in dust where once they fed.

Life unwound, a spirit died,

The thylacine's haunting cry.

Museum halls, a dusty tomb,

Hold echoes of a vanished grace.

Striped beauty lost, consumed by gloom,

A phantom painted on time's face.

Now ghosts of hunters stalk the land,

Memories etched in shifting sand.

Hope’s fragile thread, a promise fled

A future bled, a bounty dead.