Penance He saw the painting of the sky at dawn, and the moon's retreat; the horizon drew him on. He watched an eagle's shadow hang like a crucifix over ripening wheat, and his feet took him to the raw paradise of the garrigue, wafting the scent of fragrant thorns. Every bend intrigued, with each climb suspense grew, each fork in the road was a choice, but he knew the way. He felt the stretching out of time and the seasons changed. On Galicia's shore, he fell to his knees to pick a scallop shell; His feet showed lines and hollows like the tracks he had followed in the Pyrenees. A thousand miles to save his soul, walking to Santiago.
Olivia Brookfield
15
