Rachel J Bowler's photos

Stone Heart

Was it you walking Behind me Under blue skies, Before the day Turned to evening? Shapes on The shoreline. A dream once vivid. Moments That came to pass, And then forgotten, Until sadness Whispered them to life.

Ludovico Einaudi

Martin Czerny

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.

Ludovico Einaudi

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

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.

Richard Rodney Bennett

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 A nightmare Set me free.

In the winter I came back, When the mist was down. I could still read the signs That pointed the way Towards solitary benches. So I chose one and sat, And drizzle mingled Between every pore, Until it reached Ethereal peace.

Martin Czerny

Ludovico Einaudi

Protecting shoes from the mud, My glamour works In frozen fractals, Waiting for change To unfix blankness Into a wry smile. Sit outside with me For an hour and feel The numbness. Or stay for longer Through the birdsong, And watch freedom.

Martin Czerny

'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. A thousand years Away, Alluded to By lovers On a rainy day. The real story Never told. The winter warning.