Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: Midlands

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.

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.

Not tidied from the day before You tools rest in the dust sprinkled light Among shavings That have been hammered through the years. Slithers of work unseen. Things I never quite knew. Nothing fits together. The uneven shapes of pungent metal And wood cracked dry Sprawl around Among the guesses made. And ancient contraptions Of unfathomable use Sit neglected Beside old hanging baskets And watering cans Prematurely dry. Tomorrow you will continue Like before, filing away Behind the sun-darkened door Before stepping out into the glaring light And locking the door firmly shut. Hanging the rusty key Out of reach. But this is a mystery I am determined to solve And I will find a way To polish deeply Until the copper shines bright.

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

Gilbran Alcocer I used to love walking around the grounds and lake at Himley Hall, and looking at the art work for sale in the coffee shop. But now my memories of the place are bittersweet. I used to take my Dad there before he passed away in 2024, and I remember visiting there the day before my cat was run over in 2023. Maybe I will feel differently as time passes. This was taken on a rainy day, before I went inside to take cover.

Days of yellow noise Drive through me, Passing in asinine brightness. I try to count the trees Behind the mist. An impossible endeavour Discovered too late.

I wait for a tomorrow Filled with summer. I feed my thoughts But this is no sad interim. My eyes are impatient For the frost to melt 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)

Pachelbel

Netherton, Dudley, West Midlands.

The cloak of loneliness was a distant weed. Something only half comprehended, Barely regarded. Pondered on but not yet worn, Let alone handed down. In the shade of spring Everything stretched ahead, And there was no rush to get home.

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.

Through the house No longer there, She walks. At a distance, Across the open grass. Sitting on a bench In the height of summer. At dusk, she lingers On the outskirts Of the fair. A thousand years Away, Alluded to By lovers On a r Rainy day. The real story Never told. The winter warning.

There is no symbol here. No infinite reaching To the other side. No secrecy Or sacred rites. Patterns of thought And feeling Comfortably cease. There is no need To seek the sky, Or what's beyond. There is already Light enough To see.

Shape shifting their way like fog Through the days, An invisible war has been fought For forty years By ghosts in disguise Who show you who they are Every day If you dare look Into the blue chill Of nothingness.

Rachel is a hobbyist photographer who also makes a few poetic attempts, of mainly comic value. Her work explores the relationship between midlife sub-cultures and very long walks. With influences as diverse as Danny Dyer and Camus, new variations are generated from both explicit, implicit and extra layers. Ever since she was a child, after holidaying at Butlin's Skegness, she has been fascinated by the essential unreality of the universe. What starts out as hope soon becomes corrupted into a carnival of chaos and trips to Sainsbury's, leaving only a lingering sense of what the hell has happened type nausea. Her work is aloof and systematic, and cool, neutral imagery is used. By means of thought processes, she explores the possibility of escape from the corporate world. As subtle phenomena become frozen through boundaried and repetitive practice, the viewer is left without a clue as to the potential or the limits of our future.