Rachel J Bowler's photos

In the 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.

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

Gilbran Alcocer

The Waterboys

The spring chill Never easy to ignore, Beds down the dusk. And the camellia tree That sparkled only Twelve hours before, Shakes black As the skulk unleashes. Hands cover ears Waiting for the sun, The great deceiver, To arrive Imperceptibly, Never revealing its Companion's misdeeds, Until the ever present Warning of birdsong Laments the break Of day, once more.

Elvis Costello

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.

Wrapping myself in A blanket of hope, I turn once more To the shore, And soak in The silence Of years. The rebellion Of sand Beneath my feet Works its Soft inhibition. From now on I'll watch the tide Forever.

Vita incerta.

Ludovico Einaudi

I wait for a tomorrow Filled with summer. I feed my thoughts But this is no sad interim. Although my eyes are impatient For the frost to melt To be contracted anew, The blunt force allayed, The sharpness shrinks, And the fullness of winter Is renewed daily, Until the view becomes clear. And dullness reminds me That I escaped. (Inspired by Sonnet 56)

Pachelbel

Shivering out of the water, Between oceans I used to wait, Wondering if hope would become Stronger or weaker. But no longer. Now I stay on dry land, and The waves don't pull me under.

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.

Netherton, Dudley, West Midlands.

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

Vivaldi

Mozart