Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: fog

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.

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.

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.

Martin Czerny You explain this world to me with an image. I realise then that you have been reduced to poetry. Albert Camus

In a thousand Different directions, Following many Paths not one, The branches Show us the way, And whisper A kind of freedom We can barely Understand.

Martin Czerny Warley Park and Lightwoods Park near Birmingham are separated by a main road, but are almost interconnected. Both parks have been a feature of my life since I was born. When my parents decided to move house in 1977, they moved from living just around the corner from Lightwoods Park, to a very short walk from Warley Woods. I spent most of my free time as a child and teenager in these two parks. Both places have a strong nostalgic hold over me - as places where youthful dreams were conceived, and as places where broken dreams are reflected on as an adult.

Morning star, Out of the winter sun You appeared in black With chords of comfort, And all the songs I had ever known. I traded my soul For a lyre For you to play. And when the darkness Came I listened, until A nightmare Set me free.

In the winter I came back, When the mist was down. I could still read the signs That pointed the way Towards solitary benches. So I chose one and sat, And drizzle mingled Between every pore, Until it reached Ethereal peace.

'There's the ladder without-a-top,' said Silky, pointing. 'No one has ever climbed beyond the three thousandth rung, because they get so tired. And there's the tree-that-sings. It's singing now.' So it was - a whispery, beautiful song, all about the sun and the wind and rain. The children could understand it perfectly, although the tree did not use any words they knew. It just stood there and poured out its song in tree language. Enid Blyton - The Folk of the Faraway Tree

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.

Soon the fog will lift And the sun will Tear into Another day. Reaching into The infinite Beyond oneself, The space on The other side, Is limitless In its nothingness.

Benevolently It descends. A half-memory I can't quite Recall, Which still Surprises, As if Something Has already Happened. There is no Uneasiness and The shadows Disappear When I try To touch them Into solitude.

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.