The Vikings sailed
in ships they built,
precisely, with
north grit.
Hulls of
lacquered pine
and groaning oak—
those looming trees
they split.
They braved
rough salt,
great waves,
tight straits—
they traded, and
they plundered.
They journeyed through
brash, biting winds,
hailstones, and
rattling thunder.
Each reunited
with their love,
each felt their
bold hearts falter
when they looked into
their love’s wide eyes,
knowing they’d leave
again tomorrow.
The Vikings lived
robust and quick;
they drank,
they sang,
went merry.
The Vikings killed,
they stole,
they raped,
and this legacy
they carry
is easy now
to condemn
from the comfort
of our homes—
plaster set
by another’s hands,
all labor not
our own.
I fear we,
a stationary people,
have grown perhaps
too comfortable
reprehending those
who came before—
those who did
the unthinkable.
pm poetry 