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Cherry-tongued drake, currant bushes
shake as you weave through them.
My hair is currant bushes. Also, time is.

You weave through my hair all
orange and cedar, smelling of
spices, Oolong, mirade. If you turn tiny,
microscopic, you can catch on the barbs of the
individual hairs like everyday fingers on silk.

You weave through time like a sea-dragon.
You back, sides, are sleek and dark like weeds in lakes.
The colour of strong tea. The colour of muddy water.
The colour of cellophane amber. The colour of my eyes.
The windows of this house are cracked, every pane.
Slivers of cedar stain my skin.