Polypodipus rises at twilight. Emerald tentacles unfurl through the pond’s mirror surface like giant fern fronds caught mid-twist. Each limb glows from within, its veins pulsing with bioluminescent seeds that drift upward in soft waves of colour. Are they spores? Eggs? No one seems quite sure. Now and then, a tentacle ripples and releases a cloud of tiny glowing “seed-pixels.” They hang in the air, swirl gently, then disappear, hinting at growth, travel, and mystery. As people approach, the pulses grow stronger, as if the creature is responding to their presence – curiosity stirring it into life. By day, the sculpture looks like a plant: matt green, with leaf-like ribs and subtle veins. But by night, it transforms. It shimmers, shifts colour, and feels alive. From a distance, it might be an octopus rising from the water; up close, it’s more like a giant fern slowly unfurling. Polypodipus plays with the line between plant and animal. In a world where nature and technology are blending – think coral reefs with sensors or forests shaped by AI – it imagines something new and strange. Its glowing seeds are an invitation: take a spark of that idea, plant it, and see what might grow.