Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: winter

Hope lies on the sofa Barely venturing out Into the winter sun, Into the grey skies Of past dreams. In poverty, the Church sits empty. Serenity stirs For a moment Preparing to drift Back into sleep. Sometimes spring Never comes.

Show me the beauty of that snowy-scene. This is how I want to remember things. Beneath the lamplight in my street; Bright and alive. Tonight I am wide-eyed Tracing tracks along the road. Let me watch the people stroll, Hand in hand. Hope shines for a moment. And I will dream.

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

Vita incerta.

I wait for a tomorrow Filled with summer. I feed my thoughts But this is no sad interim. My eyes are impatient For the frost to melt To be contracted anew, The blunt force allayed. But the sharpness shrinks, When the fullness of winter Is renewed daily, Until the view becomes clear. And dullness reminds me That I escaped. (Inspired by Sonnet 56)

Vivaldi

Balmorehea

Sigur Ros

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.

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.

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 This photo and the previous five were taken at Warley Park and Lightwoods Park near Birmingham. These parks are separated by a main road, but are almost interconnected. They have been a feature of my life since I was born. The bandstand in the photo is in Lightwoods Park. The photo was taken on a heavily foggy day in January. When my parents decided to move house in 1977, they moved from living just around the corner from Lightwoods Park, to a very short walk from Warley Woods. My mum would wheel me around Lightwoods Park in my pram, and I spent most of my free time as a child and teenager in these two parks. Both places have a strong nostalgic hold over me - as places where youthful dreams were conceived, and as places where broken dreams are reflected on as an adult.

'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

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 When I try To touch them. This is how I want it To be.

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” ― Albert Camus This photo was taken on an extremely frosty and foggy morning near Bridgnorth. Whenever I can take some time away from work and other commitments, on either Wednesday or Thursday mornings, I meet up with a few other photographer friends and we explore different places in the Midlands. This usually means an early start, which isn't my most favourite thing. The morning this photo was taken, we made an impromptu stop near Quatt, drawn to the spot after driving past a series of beautiful frosty fields. The man in the photo is a photographer friend of mine, walking along the road to stake out his next shot.

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.