On water

Match racing off the quay at Malmö - 
two catamarans burn down a spinnaker run, 
careering almost abreast to the mark -

fast boats, sharp boats, giving no quarter,
they would have been devilish
in battles on the Öresund,

flying through on one foaming hull, 
quicker with fire and axe and death
than even Vikings could conceive.

They race against the bridge from Denmark,
suspension cables strung behind them.
Ice-cream parlour awnings rattle. 

Back seventy years these were working docks
on those hard nights when Danes sailed Jews
across the strait and Gestapo hunted.

I come from a fearful, pitiless nation;
however blond and fortunate Swedes are
their parents welcomed fugitives by water.