You are the sand
between visiting toes,

You are a house-martin
hurriedly searching for straw and mud for his nest,

You are an untidy brick
jutting out of a large, modern wall,

You are a pencil
refusing to sharpen,

You are an athlete
jumping energetically over metre-high hurdles,

You are the distance between hope and hatred,

You are the bolts on a chest,
too rusty to budge,

You are the distinctive smell,
of my Dad’s morning coffee,

You are the distance between 1 and 2,

You are the familiar English taste
of a fresh, salty fish ‘n’ chips,

You are the you that you are.