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.