By Nectan’s Well
being unnatural
he fixes his sight past the fields
of bere and oat and the woods
of birch, his goat-eyes watch
two worlds at once
he knows to boil henbane with bitter vetch
so he can see what exiled angels
scrawl on the bark of hazels
on the gods’ grave he plants
the ear bones of a raven
they sing to him on sightless nights
he carves a wand from the alder
that lightning woke, and reads
the words it bleeds onto his hands
wand, bones and bark reveal the spell
long ago he saw the place
where Nectan’s Well crouches under knots
he speaks
summoning brings what comes, not what’s called
he fights what he heaves from the earth
he holds it close though it is now
wolf now stag now
snake now crow
now bull now seal
until book
scrabbles from beast
its pages are hot irons in his skull
syllables moult from his tongue
his eyes, unassuming as air
open to the sun
David Adger is a queer Scottish academic teaching and writing in London. He’s published poetry in And Other Poems, Gutter and Strix, as well as academic work on linguistics.