The breeze stirs his grey beard,
it parts like grass on a windy evening;
follicles fall and grow – trope of death-life.
There are relationships that he peeled away:
new and shining like a snake smoothly
weaving its path in dust, dusty in no time.
His hair is wet with water he spilled the previous day,
he feels for the scar on his daughter’s scalp:
fingers comb the tresses she shed to remove the tumour.