Miss Havisham's Ghost

When running in the park, I recently noticed a strange tree, half hidden on a minor path. It may have once been a hollyoak or maybe a very large lavatera, but it was almost unrecognisable as such. The bark and leaves were dry and dessicated, the colour of cold ashes in the grate. As if a terrible fire had spontaneously immolated this tree and this alone. A burning bush perhaps.

The swinging branches, skeletons of leaves still clinging, were laced with what looked like thick white cobwebs. I imagined a huge green-eyed spider coming out in the night to spin the dead tree's shroud. The tree wore its clinging apparel, fans, feathers and swathes of white, with a macabre majesty. Preserved in the act of dying it seemed to glory in its deathly glow, while all around signs of Spring burgeoned in leaf and bud. A thing apart from the normal cycle of birth, death and recomposition.

I named the tree Miss Havisham, and planned to take a photograph of her this morning for the blog. But when I reached the spot, something was wrong. Miss Havisham had disappeared. All that was left was an empty space in the border, a flattened patch of ground, and a few ash-white leaves strewn on the path, like dessicated butterflies.