Gale blowing offshore, swirling rain and snow,
Obscuring nearby sea-stacks, Papa and I were
Cottage bound, thrust together by dirty weather.
Gusting winds, rhythmic thumping of front
Door, papa lit his pipe, took swig of whiskey.
Scarcely year has passed since tragic events,
Lost fishing boat, village girl, Evanna, found
Dead in water-filled peat trench. Days of hard
Weather we endured, it seemed this ocean isle,
Rocky outcropping, remained in deep mourning.

We expressed grief in our own ways: window
Candles burning, for every fisher, yarn steamers
Tied to top fence wire, wind wet-shivering on
Blustery days-nights. At chapel, Papa spoke,
Not so much prayerful eulogies, as his
Recollections, trials of island life. “We have
All known torn seasons,” he began, “deepest
Grief-despair, feelings powerless to express.”
Thus, were miseries we called seasons torn,
Lives lost, families disrupted, all to no avail.

Yet, we expressed our sorrow in simple ways,
Gift of eggs, fresh baked honeyed bread, and
Specially, hugs and handshakes, feelings
Spoken with nodding “Aye.” Yet, winds calmed
Sun shone bright, beaming redeeming light,
By dedication to each other, we returned to
Work, fishing boats pushed from sandy beach,
Plows turning rich soil, in faith nets lowered,
Seeds sown, for we are happiest when working,
Blessings of loving family, friends, island home.

Thanks for reading.

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