I walk through the city, plaiting up dreams. They are best found at night, steaming on the road, where they have been tossed out car windows or flattened from the long walks home. I straighten the dreams, pull the colours together, stretch the long-held dreams out to see how they need mending.

In the summer, they are tiny, cotton puffs, thin with the need to escape. They fall out flyscreen doors, float through mesh, gather in apple trees and fall under the strawberry plants. In the winter, nightmares rush out, falling over themselves, yellow, green and blue. These winterdreams are heavier and take longer to sort.

The long-haired girl sighs as she walks. Her dreams are complicated and will turn into pretty plaits — multicoloured, lustrous. Their shine is too bright for too long and, after a time, I decide I need to go inside, to the cupboard. I search the leftovers: five minutes outside, clean sheets and fresh bread, bare feet on the beach, and slip them into the plait for a girl who can see all of her future: endless, beautiful, exact.

I plait her dreams, brush the silky pattern, feel the knot.