Roundhay Garden Scene

The camera breathes, a flicker, crude and stark,
Upon the garden, autumn leaves descend.
In motion's dawn, a fleeting, sunlit mark,
Four figures step, a silent, joyful trend.
No sweeping epic, no grand tale to tell,
Just simple movement, captured by the lens.
A woman twirls, a coat, a brief farewell,
As time itself in novel form extends.
A father's craft, a daughter's gentle grace,
The world made new in rapid, shifting frames.
A nascent art finds its first humble place,
Before the silver screen declares its claims.
The very seed of stories yet to bloom,
Escaping stillness, conquering the gloom.