Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: Birmingham

Winter took its time Spawning in April On the lawn Of a chiaroscuro day. Breathing in silence For nine months Before swaddling catastrophe With new fears To replace the old That numbness never Fully pained away.

From point to point, In front and behind, Above and below, The horizon runs, From constant thought To constant thought. Far away Your memory hidden Behind the lines. 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 fog to fade. 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)

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.

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.

I met a traveller from Sutton Coldfield, Who said, "A massive artisan bull Stands in New Street Station, And near it, about to cut some tape, A half-sunk visage waits, Whose wrinkled lip and Gary Oldman glasses Look up towards the lifeless thing, With a half-mocking hand, ready to declare, 'My name is Ozzy, man, King of Birmingham Look on my works ye mighty and despair!' All gathered closer to the colossal wreck Whose nose did steam and eyes did glare. 'Sorry I cor stay long', the man did say 'There's a sunbed waiting for me in Tampa Bay!'"

The lights are too Bright To be spectres. Competing with the Moonlight They reveal Every insect That scales The walls of The past. Across floors And under subways Now demolished. Creatures that Crawl towards the Reflected, rather Than face the Cavernous.

The Future never spoke – Nor will he like the Dumb Reveal by sign – a Syllable Of His Profound To Come – Emily Dickinson

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.

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.

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.