Wulfcræft brings the Anglo-Saxon world back within reach — not as dusty text analysis, but as living performance: readings and recitations, the lives of queens and farmwives, the taste of barley bread, the mud of the Maldon causeway.
The mere is not just a lake. It is every dark water we refuse to look into. A close reading of the poem’s most unsettling passage — and why it still works on us, thirteen centuries on.
Read the essay →Night on the moor. In the gold-gabled hall the scop sings of creation. Something at the bottom of the mere is listening. You are what listens.