[Såstaholm, Sweden. October 10, 1995]
The rune's a leaner
windblown, wind-blasted by centuries,
its inscription scraped clean
of prayers for Lief or Per, Vikings
sailed east to visit random
carnage on the Rus.
I stand alone with stone
bearing witness among morning birds
on the edge of a rye field
in a place with no name
in a country turned neutral
inward on itself,
socialized socially, a constitutional
monarchy taking from its people
the way Vikings pillaged others,
an ethic changed direction
not intent, history's winds
hard to resist
unless you're stone.