Between 100 and 200 hours of the early morning,
on a cold winters day, between the silence of sleep,
and my mother’s screams of labour,
between the beginning of the white month and a new year.
The rough roads outside Ealing hospital,
the finer roads of London city,
the lights, the nights, the cheers,
the family get togethers during seasonal celebrations.
In a small estate, standing in the middle-
of two others and three parks nearby,
Next to neighbours that became friends,
and friends that became strangers.
Between a life that I never expected and a life
I had envisioned, between old,
and new dreams from that old house back in London,
to my own apartment in Coventry,
It was between there and here that I was born.