Rachel J Bowler's photos

Walking through the quiet city Buildings out of place Loom large. Structures we once knew. I peruse the ruins from below While surveyors scan the horizon From the tops of creaking monuments. Smiling past destruction With only a vague feeling Of emperor's doubt, Until the spring chill Never easy to ignore, Beds down the dusk. Then the wait begins. For the rising sun, The great deceiver, To arrive imperceptibly, Never revealing its companions Misdeeds. And the ever present warning Of screeching birdsong Laments the break of day Once more.

Winter took its time Spawning in April On the lawn Of a chiaroscuro day. Breathing in silence For nine months Before swaddling catastrophe With new fears To replace the old That numbness never Fully pained away.

Lifeless beauty In the mist. Stone angel. The stranger to what Was once known.

From point to point, In front and behind, Above and below, The horizon runs, From constant thought To constant thought. Far away Your memory hidden Behind the lines. Although it was expected, Your departure Still surprised. Like mist On a winter's day.

Lasting less than Ten days, They lurch In vain. I frame a few, Hoping to make them Everlasting. But they remain Anonymous, Among a million Others That strive Not to fade Out of memory.

I wait for a tomorrow Filled with summer. I feed my thoughts But this is no sad interim. My eyes are impatient For the fog to fade. To be contracted anew, The blunt force allayed. But the sharpness shrinks, When the fullness of winter Is renewed daily, Until the view becomes clear. And dullness reminds me That I escaped. (Inspired by Sonnet 56)

And here are the trees and I know their gnarled surface, water and I feel its taste. These scents of grass, and stars at night, certain evenings when the heart relaxes - how shall I negate this world whose power and strength I feel? Albert Camus

Floating on the weight Of hope, Winter flattens The echoes of morning. At the juncture I imagine finding you, Sometimes picturing you In the concealing distance, Which obscures Any chance Of finding you Once more.

Barely venturing out Into the winter sun, Into the grey skies Of past dreams. In poverty, the Earth sits empty. Serenity stirs For a moment Preparing to drift Back into sleep.

When will the disregarded blossom come? When will the sun dazzle anew? When will the sky fill with power blue?

Past the bandstand, To the bird house And bowls players, My mother sits On a sunny day. Everything is Pink, white and yellow. I watch from my pram. Later She tells me To be careful As I swing as High as I can. By the time you Join me on the path The dusk has settled, Evening has already Fallen, And we take solace In the fairground Until the night Begins.

Sunlight weaves its silver. Transient in desolate brevity. Leaving as soon as it arrives. Always unseeing. I open my eyes And wander in the dark.

Between time And finality Another day arrives. Some come from Where I seek to go Others from Whence I came. Symmetry has Become a myth That truth cannot Dispel.

When you walked Through my dreams I never knew you. The stranger behind My father. Passing by Without a glance. The sunset walker Crossing over.

Now only glimpsed. A myth. A lamentation. A disappearing Sanctuary. The fog recedes. Fleeing from Its own reflection. The destination Never reached.

Your ghost has not yet arrived. The past stands still. I wander the streets In endless searching For what is gone But still alive. What I learned from the rain Is of no use now. I travel through this empty day. And dusk is here.

2024 didn't disappoint for sheer awfulness. The worst event of the year was losing my lovely dad. He was 96, and he is profoundly missed. Born in 1928, he was one of eleven children and was a non-identical twin. He would often share stories about his childhood with me, including of his time as an evacuee in Oxfordshire during World War II. In 1946, when he was eighteen, he was sent to Germany to complete his National Service. He travelled around Germany in the immediate aftermath of WWII as part of a vehicle maintenance team, repairing army trucks in workshops and on the road, although he never followed this line of work as a career path when he returned home. When in Germany, he saw the destruction war can cause first hand. He married my mum in 1951, and stayed married to her until she passed away in 2016. In the 1970s he witnessed tensions between the unions and managers at work, and the rise of Mrs T. He lived to see the birth of the computer age and the internet. When my dad was born, the horse and cart was still being used as a mode of transport, and when he died, the electric car was making its debut. I sincerely hope that I can keep some of his memories alive. The photo above is of my dad holding me as a baby at home in 1968.

I wait Without cover Whilst the cold sharpens in. Death pulling to the floor. Is it possible to revive The mists of eternity? The frost smothers Einstein white, And gravity pins me To this place. I dare not look up. Hope would crush me.