Five o'clock. The pond is still grey. One drop of water rolls across a lotus leaf as the flower opens, and somewhere a pot of white tea is poured.

Six o'clock on the mountain. The first white tea buds wear a coat of silver down and a bead of dew, and there is no sound at all. Clean and soft, quietly held up by a breath of aged pu-erh.

Seven o'clock in a wooden bathhouse. Steam rises off cypress boards and a bowl of matcha has just been whisked. You breathe in and the day is clear.

Eight o'clock at the breakfast table. Tea is poured from high above the cup, a long silk ribbon, warm and milky and a little sweet.

Nine o'clock. The day begins with the first sip of green tea, bright and cool, and for one moment time stands still. Cooling aloe and mint lift it; a little pu-erh keeps it grounded.

Ten o'clock in the orchard. A wooden ladder leans against the tree and the first green apple of the day is crisp in your hand.

Eleven o'clock. You lift the lid of an old cedar box and find white peaches resting inside: soft fruit against straight, dry wood.

Noon in the glasshouse. Sunlight falls through the panes onto a just-picked white peach and a cup of roasted oolong.

One o'clock and lunch is on. Pandan leaves just cut, rice steaming in the pot: the green, warm smell of a kitchen that means home.

Two in the afternoon, in the shade of an old fig tree. A wooden chair, a book, green leaves and soft fruit overhead.

Three o'clock, tea time. A lychee floats in a cup of black tea, and a little colour comes to your cheeks.

Four o'clock, and the first great rain of the season comes down on the mango trees. Everything turns green; the air smells of leaves and young fruit.

Five o'clock. The rain has stopped. Palm leaves are still dripping, the coconut water is cold, and everything has gone quiet.

Six o'clock on a mountain path after the rain. Moss on the stone steps, wet wood, and the cool breath of the forest.

Seven o'clock, as the light turns gold. A pot of aged pu-erh on an old wooden table, the tea dark and glowing, cedar underneath like a steady voice reading verse.

Eight o'clock. Lanterns are lit in the courtyard and osmanthus petals drift down beside the teacups.

Nine o'clock, and a long conversation. The tea grew in the cracks of mountain rock; it tastes of minerals and the roasting fire.

Ten o'clock. Moonlight on an old pavilion and a pot of jasmine tea: the scent every grandmother knew.

Eleven o'clock by the stove. The fire is down to its last ember: smoked black tea, sandalwood, and a single thread of smoke.

Midnight. A slice of chilled melon, a cup of white tea, and dew forming on the window glass.

One o'clock. The house is asleep and you are still writing. The ink has not dried, and a cup of oolong has gone cold beside the page. A dry, quiet tea for the hours no one else sees.

Two o'clock, and the rain will not stop. You lie awake and listen to it on the roof. Green tea cooled by rain, with vetiver underneath like wet earth.

Three o'clock. Somewhere a flower opens only now, in the dark, when no one is watching. Its scent drifts in over white tea and skin-soft musk.

Four o'clock at the temple. The bell has not yet rung. White tea is steeping, sandalwood is warming, and a single thread of incense hangs in the dark.

Plum blossom over a breath of white tea.

Apricot blossom, soft and powdery, with a touch of green tea.

Pink peach blossom with a whisper of white tea.

Fresh, dewy peony over a touch of oolong.

Bright, juicy floral with a spark of pink pepper.

The green, cool smell of lotus leaves, not the flower.

Quiet, airy orchid with white tea.

Golden osmanthus, apricot-soft.

Dry, herbal chrysanthemum tea.

Soft, watery pink floral.

Clean camellia with a cool, green edge.

Fresh, green narcissus with a drop of water.