A moment in time
In the quiet dance of moments small,
The artist takes his stand.
With colors bright and canvas tall,
He embarks on a journey, grand.
Each stroke of brush, a tale to weave,
Of time both lost and found.
In the realm of art, where dreams conceive,
No ticking clock does sound.
Hours meld into a single breath,
As colors burst and blend.
In this space, there is no death,
No beginning, and no end.
Time, in flight, becomes a blur,
An echo in the night.
Yet, in the art, it leaves a stir,
A memory, burning bright.
Creating, the artist loses self,
In the rhythm of delight.
For in this dance with time itself,
Each moment takes its flight.
by Ian McGann