Chimes on four different singing bowls,

Glass, brass, large, small.

Clear as a bell each one chimes, intones,

Ringing out with a purity of purpose….

Then the stick around each bowl,

Smoothly lipping each rim,

So each one hums to a different tune,

Potent, peaceful, tranquility….

A rainstick that brings the sensation

Of each raindrop down your spine,

Delicious, energising, beautiful,

As if the weather invaded your being.

Then the piano, skipping, leaping high,

The notes skating off the keyboard,

Small arpeggios of sound,

That hang in the air like icicles.

The gong…the gong…stentorian,

Ringing the changes through my veins,

Each blow like a chime from a grandfather clock,

Pendulum swinging to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

This is when I feel myself expand

To fill the spaces between my breaths,

There is nothing but the feeling

Of the blood in my veins, scintillating, wonderful.

Then the squeezebox, and the voice,

Chating to the pulse of ancestry,

Singing the songs of our forefathers,

To make us feel mellow, still.

This is joy, this is exquisite,

This is the pulse of the century,

Thudding to the rhythm of the universe,

Making me feel whole, complete.