Rachel J Bowler's photos

Who am I? Pieces of the past. The stain on the wall. The one who loved too much. Sunlight in the darkened room. The shadow in the corner. The mystery unsolved, And the one solved Long ago. The tree in winter. I am all And I am nothing Waiting for the night to come.

On this dusty hillside Every sign I see says 'Lost' Placed there long ago Not just meant for me, Set in bold and Written over Where 'Home' Used to be. But this was never Home to me.

Shall I compare thee To a summer’s day? Alright – Thou art pretty hot. Shakespearian Haiku - Brian Bilston

Through the mist You reach, Before I wake, Into The past, Resting on Numb acceptance, Before fading As quickly As the hour Into the years.

The tide slips backwards. The ripples circle inwards. Memory is shifting. Photos on the wall. Music is playing The noise of a party. Voices I once knew. The river flows away. The rain falls upwards. The room once warm is now cold. Childhood toys, Are scattered on the floor. The sun rises and glistens. Through the window Of the living room. Where my father sits. The tears flow upwards. The sink fills downwards. The cat once found is lost. There is laughter. I listen from my room upstairs. August becomes July. The clock chimes five then four. The shed becomes a greenhouse, We all sit on the bench. There is more laughter But I’m not there. Old grows young. The puddle sinks upwards. The beach once full Is now empty. I remember this beach. I should never have come back. The robins disappear. The sun rises from the west. I am watching through The bars of my cot. I hold on to them And I won’t let go I won’t let go.

You showed me the sunset On a day you said Would never end. I walked across an Ocean of snow Barefoot. I made it to The edge. But it was already dark Before the sunrise Before the morning star Obscured the view Of days already done Long ago.

Across the sea A thousand swords Forged in the sun Gather. Uniform, abstract. Their silent dance Mesmerises, and Avalon ascends For a moment, Refracting in A myth once glimpsed, Sucked in to a sanctuary Of destruction. Sinking back into Victorian benches, The wood calms, And I look back Towards the town, Where the old soldier Watches From his wheelchair.

Leave us in peace, the trees cry out. Kill us not. The vandal wind has already tried. When the people arrived, there was Lamentation, of sorts, for a while, But most just walked by, Treading on our bones. The dead leaves fall, And keep falling. Take some to Write on if you Will, before The thunder Storm Comes Once More. Barely alive, kept almost Freezing, we remain.

It was Christmas Eve, babe In the drunk tank An old man said to me, "Won't see another one" And then he sang a song The Rare Old Mountain Dew I turned my face away And dreamed about you. Got on a lucky one Came in eighteen-to-one I've got a feeling This year's for me and you So happy Christmas I love you, baby I can see a better time When all our dreams come true... From Fairytale of New York Jem Finer and Shane MacGowan

Grey rocks Carefully arranged, The patterns we make Important to ourselves. Defiant as a child. Behind where I stand Even higher concrete walls Have been placed So that we can enjoy The view of our Delusion. But no longer Do we often look. Standing as far Back as possible. No one tolerates The storm Any longer. Ignoring the swell We try to filter out The noise Ringing in our ears From a distance, Waiting to crash Into our defences. It's hard work. But the storm Always finds a way Somehow.

Friends and family Had disappeared, Into the memories Of seashells And candyfloss, Into the notes Of the music at The end of the pier. Into the penny arcade, Into the sand Beneath your feet, Into the heat Of the day, Into an ocean Full of longing. Maybe I ran past You on the beach Many years ago With spade in hand, Towards the end.

Wisdom hides in the mist, imperceptible. Words flow as cliches, Images repeated. Strangers on the same road, Follow a trail of Sodden, windswept threads, Looking for the sound of their own heart. Some of these words are true. But none make a difference.

Crisis estimates that £1.9 billion would be needed to completely eradicate homelessness in the UK. This cost includes various aspects such as providing affordable housing, support services, and mental health assistance. As of 2025, there are over 3 million millionaires, and 156 billionaires in the UK. The Church of England has a large endowment of £8.7 billion which generates approximately £1 billion a year in income.

When the rain poured down I ran to a seafront shelter. You were already there. I thought you were a resident Of a local old people's home. I looked over towards you and nodded. I expected someone to come for you But no one came, and time passed. The rain offered no respite. I looked at you again, and saw The carrier bags at your feet. I bought you some food And made some calls. But still no-one came. Everyone already knew you were there. No hotel or B&B would take you. You told me your story As SUVs drove by. On my birthday All I could be was half A Samaritan. I stayed until dusk. The next day I was told That you had moved on.

The soft tread Of your footsteps Did not surprise me That winter's day. Disappearing behind trees The sun made no attempt To follow. And you said nothing, So he conspired Whilst you made Fractals. It was then, Without shelter And far from home, I began walking The shadow Dappled path. Through the years.

Holding a ladder She sang And you saw. Then, climbing Right past With a swag bag, Your ghost made No footprints In the frost, As she watched The frozen sunset Slip behind The brightest day.

Compelling. Intangible. Still wrapped In obscurity After all These years. Es freue sich Der da atmet Im rosigten licht.