Rachel J Bowler's photos

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, While 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, for when 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. From caring. 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 Until the frost Set in. 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.

Chilling to the soul In their aspect But of nature Nonetheless. Peacefully intriguing In their reassuring Order And disconcerting power. Absorbing in Primal fear.

My Spooky.

Buried behind concrete Hope lies dead In tiny rooms Where the lost Seek their souls, Waiting for night To arrive Once more. Soon Brutalist ghosts will Rise into the air To watch over their Shiny, reflective offspring Keeping together What is falling apart.

Just before evening The waves Engulfed hope, In the salty air. I watched the birds above And felt the chill falling.

What had lived In her soul As an instinct Was now confirmed. One day we will all Walk among the ruins, With the vague hope That we will defy What we see Before our eyes. Now shacked to This knowledge For a lifetime, The only thing she could do Was to keep returning To stare at the stones, To the end.

When the night fell The city of stones Fell into darkness. It was impossible To see anything ahead, Except for an haphazard Array of lanterns Moving around Independently. Blue, yellow, red. Few ventured out, and Those who did used What they could To make light, Only strong enough To illuminate their Immediate vicinity. They navigated by memory And sense. No one plotted too far Ahead Because they knew how That had turned out.