Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: trees

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.

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.

Old memory In the mist That shrouds The winter's day. Appear to me Beyond the light, And stay, Stay. Martin Czerny

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 The nightingale Set me free.

In the winter I came back, When the mist was down. All the signs Pointed the way Towards solitary benches. So I chose one and sat, And drizzle mingled Between every pore, Until it reached Ethereal numbness.

'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

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. Two hundred years Away. Alluded to By lovers On a 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 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 Into solitude, When I try To touch them.

Shape shifting their way like fog Through the days, An invisible war has been fought For forty years By ghosts in disguise Who show you who they are Every day If you dare look Into the blue chill Of nothingness.

Rachel is a hobbyist photographer who also makes a few poetic attempts of comic value. Her work explores the relationship between midlife sub-cultures and very long walks. With influences as diverse as Danny Dyer and Camus, new variations are generated from both explicit, implicit, and extra layers. Ever since she was a child, after holidaying at Butlin's Skegness, she has been fascinated by the essential unreality of the universe. What starts out as hope soon becomes corrupted into a carnival of chaos and trips to Sainsbury's, leaving only a lingering sense of what the hell has happened type nausea. Her work is aloof and systematic, and cool, neutral imagery is used. By means of thought processes, she explores the possibility of escape from the corporate world. As subtle phenomena become frozen through boundaried and repetitive practice, the viewer is left without a clue as to the potential or the limits of our future.