28 May 2026

The moth tree is haunted. The nook of every branch and twig wears petticoats of webbing, gathered loosely like that skin between the thumb and the index finger. The trunk wears the spectre of a shroud, tight and taut like a second skin. The tree is ensnared, momentarily, in the mere whisper of netting, a permeable prison as soft as satin.

The moth tree seems dead. It is newly desiccated into the form of a skeleton leaf. Stripped of its own leaves, a feathered outline of where they previously were remains. A forged signature shape of a tree.

The moth tree is not sleeping. It is petrified - surprised by caterpillars who weave their web, swathing the tree, whole. The tree is their spindle, as they labour safely within. The moth tree can do nothing but wear both its captors and the silk and ermine frock they spin, until they finally pupate, emerge and fly away, in June.