Rumble, rumble, mile on mile of tarmac tyres,

click - clack indicators to somewhere, lane in, lane out and

wind whishing, swishing through mile over mile of traffic.

Traffic where cranes grow tall and cones flock on heavy hills and race-away flats,

until a gamer mis-dodges lanes and an HGV smacks its tonnage and corkscrews the car.

Behind we screech in, and a trailer splits, spilling snow white milk which froths our windscreen and flumes, plumes into feathers,

seagull white, gravity light, they merge shape and take flight.

And my scream snatches the flare and holds like a talon to the gull in the air.

Eee, Aiiee, high above the carnage a seagulls wings beat, bound for costal cliffs and tidal marshes.

In the skyway where there ain't no lanes, just freeaway, fly away.

           I shan't even miss fish and chips.