Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: treescape

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.

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.

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

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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)

And here are the trees and I know their gnarled surface, water and I feel its taste. These scents of grass, and stars at night, certain evenings when the heart relaxes - how shall I negate this world whose power and strength I feel? Albert Camus

When will the disregarded blossom come? When will the sun dazzle anew? When will the sky fill with power blue?

Sunlight weaves its silver, Transient in desolate brevity. Leaving as soon as it arrives. Always unseeing. I open my eyes And wander in the dark.

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.

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.

Martin Czerny You explain this world to me with an image. I realise then that you have been reduced to poetry. Albert Camus

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.