La Cortedad, Page 1 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

Out in the ocean,
Far away,
A bit of breeze
Began to sway;
Just a little
Swirl of air;
A passing ship
Was unaware.
But then the swirl
Increased in speed,
And gathered winds,
And spun indeed;
The air was cool,
The sea was warm;
The swirl became
A tropic storm.
Its speed increased,
It gathered rain;
The swirl became
A hurricane.

The fishing boats
Returned to port,
Earlier than
The usual sort;
That afternoon,
Half empty, sad,
To the barrior isle of
La Cortedad.
“The sky was strange, ”
An old man said,
“A deathly hue,
Not sunset red.”
So families gathered
From sea and field,
And stoked their fires
For the evening meal;
The children knelt
Beside their beds
And said their prayers
With lowered heads,
While parents watched
From near the door,
And echoed prayers
They’d said before.
And then at last,
Each girl and lad
Found sleep in
Small La Cortedad.