The Seagull now eating my sandwich

computes a multimap of all the local take-outs
behind his brassy glare. Bird-brained, above us all,
he sat-navs through south-westerlies, tunnels low cloud,
champions right of way over starling and rook.

Inland, he takes his Welcome Break, a chocolate-
churning field, wormy with screech and stab.
Whichever familiar of mine ploughs up these parallels
drives on, his Massey Ferguson unnoticed as a bird would be

on Google earth. Refuelled, my sleek-headed plunderer
unfolds his creased, delineate wings, then hits
the tarmac of the sky. From the outside lane
he landmarks services - MacDonald's car parks,

bus stops, playgrounds, bins - his focal point
the sea. Here is the stoneground beach
crusted with cliffs, its trolley-dash of fishing boats
unloading their cheap-as-chips along the quay,

and here I sit, gulled, open-mouthed, unmapped.