The joy of a quiet time.
In a gallery, moving alone,
Staring silently at where shadows fall.
While those around also follow their taste,
Taking in the work of others; choosing where to dwell.
Admiring those with palette and brush;
Those strangers that have mixed beads of oil into colours, light and dark.
These great masters creating beauty and form.
Renaissance art, still aging.
–
This visitor, concentrating on rural scenes, often lacking figures.
Looking beyond, at what nature offers.
A blur of ancient mist, odd patches of half-hidden sky, an unexpected wisp of smoke.
And yet, with the occasional ornateness of a frame catching the eye.
Such distractions being fleeting reminders of times passed,
With this great gathering of revered masterpieces.
–
A merger of the material and the aesthetic.
All somehow verging on the spiritual.
Ah! The pure joy of it.
Staring silently at where shadows fall.