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.