I stole myself to stand in front of you.
Clasped hands and bowed head.
Enlightened soul.
I was three sticks of incense in.
When the coach party arrived.
A bee line, we’d have once said,
For your gilded form.
I had to stand aside,
Old people with a monk for a guide.
The rain kept on falling, pat, pat,
Against my plastic umbrella.
I tried the pentagon pagoda,
But the silent figure there,
Does nothing for my heart.
The rice cakes and painted ceiling,
Don’t have the gravitas,
Or your proportions,
Come to that.
So the largest alter bayed me forth,
For the importance of my call.
The complicated statues,
Frivolous when compared to you,
But the size lends importance.
My candle had the company of two,
Both burning at different stages.
But still the prayer here was helped along,
By the gentle knocking of the gong.
