Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: forest

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

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.

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.

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.

'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

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.

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.