In the Milton home

companion the ingrate

 

drowns in whisky,

his blind hands grasp the air

 

and sketch the gods. He gestures.

And a tent appears.

 

A car park. And streams

of people.

 

Stream to it. The guest speaker

in his chopper

 

looks down and is

momentarily anxious.

 

They’re all coming to hear

him. He hovers over

 

his country, fields, orchards,

his onomatopoeia,

 

his days, his disordered

horses. Below

 

birds veer and

thud in aqueous humour,

 

giants fall between hills,

pollen drifts

 

on lawns.

So far.

 

So good. And on the stage

he’ll walk on fire,

 

and water, which is

more difficult.

poem studio