2. Brimstone Moth

The Brimstone Moth is one of the night’s quiet glimmers — a flash of pale yellow that drifts through the dusk like a scrap of moonlight. It’s a common moth across the countryside, but easy to overlook; when it lands, its wings fold together in a neat triangle, their soft colour blending perfectly with leaves and lichen.

They fly from April right through to October, with several broods over the year. Most often they’re on the wing at night, drawn to light, though they sometimes rest in the open by day. When disturbed, they flicker away — quick, erratic, and gone before you’ve quite realised what you saw.

Their caterpillars are just as distinctive: slim and twig-like, marked with brown and green to mimic the stems they rest upon. They feed on hawthorn, blackthorn, and a range of other shrubs, including fruit trees and honeysuckle — the sort of plants that edge the lanes and woodland borders of the parish. By the time winter comes, they pupate among fallen leaves, wrapped in a silk cocoon, waiting for the next mild spell to bring them out again.

What links the Brimstone Moth to the night is its subtlety. It doesn’t make noise or spectacle. It works with shadow and shape — using the low light to its advantage, moving unseen except for the rare flash of yellow in torchlight. To the creatures of the night, that colour might be a signal; to us, it’s a reminder that even the dimmest hours are full of life.

I often think of them when the evenings warm, flickering past hedges and garden walls. They don’t travel far, but they make good use of the dark — a gentle presence in the small hours, keeping the night alive with quiet movement.