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.

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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.

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Hours meld into a single breath,

As colors burst and blend.

In this space, there is no death,

No beginning, and no end.

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Time, in flight, becomes a blur,

An echo in the night.

Yet, in the art, it leaves a stir,

A memory, burning bright.

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Creating, the artist loses self,

In the rhythm of delight.

For in this dance with time itself,

Each moment takes its flight.

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by Ian McGann

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