Hindu Temple, Neasden.

Carved white marble. Silence. Peace.
These languages I speak.
Cross-legged and reverent, palm
to palm in hope, I understand.
No need to translate  into words
which skim the hand-made paper
like stones across a pond, leaping
and flying, sinking to the depths;
or sing as hymns which weave
Morning Glory, wild among the rafters.

Maggie Butt

If you've any comments about this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear them.

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