In the quiet of Easter morning,
the children are all anticipation.
We are prone in our bed,
rumpling the cover into a sea.
Light doesn’t so much insist
as wash against the windows.
The year cleanses itself.
This game of waves flings up
rubbery dog fish, spiny crustaceans.
At the point where water laps
at rock pools and shingle,
our daughter reaches out,
finds a black-and-tan egg case,
hope washed up, an angel’s purse.
Bulgaria's Easter traditions are rich and various: you can read more about them here.