The Thylacine of the Sea

Our bodies like sky holding clouds,

raining and rising in the slow cycle

of our underwater breaths.

We are older than you can fathom,

drifting through these harbour fathoms.

Our bodies are all sunsets now, clouds stained,

thirsty for rain in this

new dark you’ve brought.

Death is slow down here.

As you steal our breath we fester and die,

deep in the fathoms of the back of your mind.