I thought you might enjoy some extracts from the journal I've been keeping on my travels.
The monks chant,
their drone puctuated by cymbals,
quickened by the building, fading
pounding of the drum.
Behind their striking purple,
their gaudy green and yellow,
worshippers bow in street clothes,
shoes in plastic shopping bags,
some kneeling, telling over beads,
holding out bags and packages
for the mysterious blessing of the fire.
Above, the fierce god in his blue war paint
scowls at his worshippers,
his blue attendants matching his ferocity,
brandishing sword and chain,
fiery halo and pointed fangs.
Yet around the walls his worshippers
remain calm, unafraid,
seated in their socks
slippers stowed carefully
beneath the sepia sky.
Outside, the fierce sun
shocks us out of winter.
The carp beg beneath the bridge.
The blossoms defy stereotype.
The old man smiles a greeting,
or a comment, or perhaps
asks a question I can never answer.
Later, on the bus, the young shoppers
chatter eagerly, giggling.
The mall's bustle is just like home,
the music a European melody,
the shop signs in English.
No wonder the ancient deity
beseiged on his hill,
surrounded by his imprisoned attendants
shakes his sword so fiercely at the careless world.