The bacon was spluttering in the grill as Francey scrolled
lazily through his library of pictures of moths, taken earlier in the morning.
Moths. ‘We don’t like moths,’ I stated flatly, thinking of
the carpet moths which have denuded a corner of the living room carpet.
Then he zoomed in. ‘This one was on your front door.’
It was breathtakingly beautiful. Lacy. Delicate. Lovely
shade of translucent green. (I’m sorry I didn’t get him to email me the
picture. Maybe I can capture one myself... a picture, that is!)
The guests, from Dublin, said they’d never seen as many
moths as they’ve seen while staying here with us. One was camouflaged well on
the stone dyke. Another lay immobile on a leaf. One had the shape of a stealth
bomber. The variety was incredible.
How is it that we have been so blind to the beauty all
around us, dismissing moths as those voracious white insects laying their
larvae in our wools?
‘I do like butterflies,’ I said lamely. And then was told
that the French for butterflies is papillon, while their word for moths is
papillon de nuit. Suddenly they sound lovely.
I can see I will become a mothophile. Didn’t God make us a
beautiful world in which to live?
(Yes, the bacon would have burnt had Don not been out there
to turn it.)
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