Squawk, screech, bicker, fight, bully, glare,

stamp the earth with sturdy orange feet tricking worms into the light,

stalk the neon cafes on the seafront, ransack overflowing bins.



Their calls sound to me like home,

melancholy, salt-drenched, melting in and out of damp grey skies,

or silhouetted sharply against an orange sunset,

insolent yellow beaks hinged wide.



With wind battered ears and brine-stung lips,

I know I am here.



We think we know them, but when I watch them wheeling in the air,

flocking to ride the thermals which twist unseen throughout the sky,

they are wild and unknown.



We take away their fish,

they steal our chips.

We disturb their bustling cliff top dwellings,

they move onto our roofs and gossip noisily.



We think we know them,

but we’ll never be able to live as they live,

cold salty water,

ride crashing waves,

glide always out of reach.

Squawk, screech, bicker, fight, bully, glare.