- Katherine Gotard
Crusade
The croissants had been baked by a soft-spoken French woman that morning
At the patisserie we found on the way to the island
I thought back to the way our breath trailed us in the cold morning air
As my sister and I ran back to the car with our breakfast
The pastry was falling apart in my hand as I carefully ate it in the back seat
The road was silent and the smell of the sea filled the wind
Fields of cow pastures and morning dew surrounded our winding path
Trees lined the coast and were tall and thin
Their roots blanketed with cornflowers
They reminded me of the ones I’ve seen in paintings
Of distant Italian villa at art galleries
None of the shops we passed were open yet
Their faces dark as the sun rose from behind them
Suddenly I could make out the striking silhouette of our destination in the distance
The shape of the island topped with its monastery ha slowly emerged
Through the tall
Thin tree line
Along the horizon