I go to the graveyard for Father's Day. I miss my dad. I lie on the grave and ask the sky why doesn't it swallow me whole and it opens white and wide and yawns it's reply.
Afterwards...
I stop my car open mouthed under a canopy of white boned trees. I ask a man on a tractor why this whole row of trees doesn't have any leaves and the gravedigger tells me it is a moth infestation. Every tree is covered in a webby muslin that flaps like plastic in the breeze. It sits so appropriately in the graveyard and is quite astonishing.
Mrs Haversham's dream, an overexposed, cling film wrapped film set. The moth larvae spin their beforebornness over the gravestones and grass..a theatrical sheen of winter white in the bright June day...
Supposedly the trees will return to normal after this cloaked strangled suffering.
I imagine they will stretch towards breath and light like love in the morning
