Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: winter

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

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

Protecting shoes from the mud, My glamour works In frozen fractals, Waiting for change To unfix blankness Into a wry smile. Sit outside with me For an hour and feel The numbness. Or stay for longer Through the birdsong, And watch freedom.

'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

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.

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” ― Albert Camus This photo was taken on an extremely frosty and foggy morning near Bridgnorth. Whenever I can take some time away from work and other commitments, on either Wednesday or Thursday mornings, I meet up with a few other photographer friends and we explore different places in the Midlands. This usually means an early start, which isn't my most favourite thing. The morning this photo was taken we made an impromptu stop near Quatt, drawn to the spot after driving past a series of beautiful frosty fields. The man in the photo is a photographer friend of mine, walking along the road to stake out his next shot.

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.