Vikings

The perforated coast of Southern Sweden
is sudden in Sunday’s thumbprint window
clouds like flaking skin float
in the bathwater of twilight,

the arc of a lake, 
glacial refugee, revealed for runes, 
where fires no doubt burned
for Odin, before the muscled landless
terrifying Norse, set out to bleed their hands,
on oars baying for the heads, and the cunts
of unsuspecting Saxons.

That’s a bad word now 
but don’t faint as if you’ve seen 
some mighty Norseman
like a fucking scary biker,
yomping up the beach dreaming of sagas 
with a bellyful of dangerous mushrooms,
ready to go beserk on your soft Saxon skull.

It means beautiful place,
and shares its etymology
with quaint, or cweynte,
like the softly smoking vents
of wattle and daub huts
or cloisters, hands in prayer
the intricate gold leaf in
the life’s work of a scribe.

The bad shit came later, 
when Normans 
themselves descended 
from terrible Vikings
sold our tough Saxon nouns
into a lifetime’s slavery 
on the cussbench,
making the female words sit
furthest from the fire.

So unless you misunderstand me
there’s no such thing as a bad word,
but you’ll know a scary fucking Viking
when you see one.