chamomile

not a tea at all but a habit one is allowed. the dried flower heads open again in the hot water and the liquor goes the colour of a worn brass key. it tastes faintly of hay, of pears that have been kept too long in a wooden bowl, of grandmother's medicine cabinet without the medicine.

taken before midnight, when the day has been longer than it deserved. drunk by the sleeper who is not yet asleep, by the person who has just put down a book and not picked up another. the ritual is slow and forgiving here.

if it puts you to sleep, the tea has been honest. if it does not, you have not let it.