Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: trees

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.

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.

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.

Show me the beauty of that snowy-scene. This is how I want to remember things. Beneath the lamplight in my street; Bright and alive. Tonight I am wide-eyed Tracing tracks along the road. Let me watch the people stroll, Hand in hand. Hope shines for a moment. And I will dream. This one seems to look a lot better when printed out.

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.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh. Philip Larkin

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 often go to the place Where the trees still whisper Their time travel magic, Releasing memories Frozen in the sun. Is this the trickery Of hope? After all these years, What am I expecting? Perhaps a sign That the year Has not yet ended.

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.

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

In bluebell wood The sun settles low Behind darkened trees. At night time The forest fades And I see you. Your eyes never Leave mine. In videos, the Weather is fine Flowers bloom. Four years to the day. Brightness shines On your face. You look up To feel the warmth, Then look away.

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