Incantation for the Ninth Night

 

The moon splits

in the chopped lake,

last light

flitting and dipping;

‘Myself, always, to all of Myself’

where I tread on stars,

where buttercups hang,

glittering heads

in the tossed grass.

 

On each spin of the wind,

a tune from the spear

harping my ribs.

‘Myself to Myself,

always Myself,’

I hear when the ravens

fall past on their backs

as I writhe on this ride

in the wind-blown Ash.

 

The dark greys;

I watch for the spell

of the something dawn,

‘Always Myself

to all of Myself.’

Days. Nights.

Nine of them swung

over my heels

and one eye gone,

 

the pain of it, screams,

blood-crust my hair,

then cut of the rope

and twice the sight:

           ‘Myself to Myself.’