Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: Birmingham

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.

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

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.

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.

There may be more...

Walking through the quiet city Buildings out of place Loom large. Structures we once knew. I peruse the ruins from below While surveyors scan the horizon From the tops of creaking monuments. Smiling past destruction With only a vague feeling Of emperor's doubt.

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

From constant thought, To constant thought. From point to point, In front and behind, Above and below, The horizon runs Far away, Your memory hidden Behind the line. Although it was expected, Your departure Still surprised. Like mist On a summer's ay.

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. The blunt force allayed. When the sharpness Of the sunbeam shrinks, The fullness of winter, Renews daily, until The view becomes clear, and Dullness reminds me That I escaped. (Inspired by Sonnet 56)

Floating on the weight Of hope, Mist flattens The echoes of morning. At the juncture Of the day, I imagine finding you, Sometimes picturing you In the distance, Obscuring 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, The bird house And bowls players, My mother sits On a sunny day. Everything is Pink, white and yellow. I watch from my pram. A few years 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 The insects That scale The walls of The past, Across floors And under subways Now demolished. Creatures that Crawl towards their Reflections, 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.