On this Good Friday, in North County, the hosing has begun in earnest.
The solid hum of powered water from multiple angles,
is lasered on wintered patios, mossy yards and forlorn driveways.
A mechanical choir of karcher, bellow a call to clean.
January leaves, grey debris, fuzzy weeds, gets blasted from its floor,
loosened, lifted from its squat place; and joins a torrent of muck
and grime and sprawling pebbles; down patios, down yards,
down driveways. Neighbours stoic in fervent cleansing,
eyes locked on hidden sandstone, waiting for a speck of bright;
and gulls sweep North Beach skies.
Last Good Friday, in Bermuda, they flew their jewelled kites,
raised crosses to perfect skies; a ballet of rainbows savouring life.
Geometric fabric, specks of bright, spiralling high over Horseshoe Bay.
This Good Friday, they rest and lie and wait till it is time again to fly.
In all places, on this day, there are birds rejoicing,
lilting louder than before, a tender choir loosening air song,
lifting hearts from squat places and raising melody to sapphire skies;
illuminating a speck of bright.