In the Milton home
companion the ingrate neolog
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.