Dodo c. 1681 Without the boon of flight, how could you flee when they came on boats that blackened across the horizon? They brought with them dogs, cats, rats and hunger, a future lodged within their bellies. Waddling through millennia in peaceful isolation, it never once occurred to you that some species weren’t to be trusted, your dowdy body and slow wit unacquainted with such teeth as you fed on the fruits and nuts of forests and heard the crack of distant shells. Woolly Mammoth c. 2000 BC Sedges were tasty, tossed between your twisted tusks, and snow might have practised its patient burial on your hairy back, but you shook it off in that moment when ground gave way to human invention. You heard them, with all their gruesome implements fashioned from corpses that may well have been once of your own herd. Thylacine c. 1936 Tasmania. Before they came, it had much to offer. Its shadows were restless with the quick arithmetic of lizards. They placed a bounty on your head, your striped back and the pouch that housed your wrinkled young. They had something to protect too, with curls of wool as white as surf, and they happily paid to close the gape of your mouth.
Trevor Conway (he/him) from Sligo, Ireland, writes poetry, fiction and songs. He has published three collections of poetry: Evidence of Freewheeling, Breeding Monsters and No Small Thing. Also available from Amazon is his guide to writing poetry, aimed at child/young adult poets, Nurturing the creative Child: A Guide to Writing Poetry. He is currently revising a collection titled A Banquet of Sorts, centered on the themes of science and nature.
