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