Poem 824 – Potential

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I was only looking for something clumsily
knocked behind our exhausted kitchen units.
For once I’m glad of silly hamfisted blunders…
Taking off the wooden panel revealed
the cup lids lurking in a darkened corner.
Grasping them triumphantly I found
my fingers strangely damp and stained with earth.
Wet? It doesn’t rain down there and yet
the evidence suggests otherwise…
A mobile phone becomes a makeshift torch
illuminating spiderwebs and trash,
an eerie realm of quirky, eccentric shadows.
Contrasting with the dark are silver streaks,
glistening like precious ore deposits,
momentarily magical until
the mundane reasserts itself. This is
not wealth but water, treacherous and slick.
I search and search until I find the source,
the finest spray from an unassuming valve.
Even the mighty Nile begins like this,
and like a river, such current flows and spreads.
Do not dismiss the potential of small things.

Thankfully, we were able to fix it. Hopefully it will dry out without too much damage to the flooring…
(18.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Brandon DesJarlais on Unsplash

Poem 822 – Lost and Found

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I’m lost within the weft and warp.
My fingers follow strings to pick
a path within its maze, a trail
within the tapestry of sound.

I strive to see the exit but
each harmony arrests and holds
me in its grasp. I squirm and dance
from line to line with no avail.

Each strand becomes a constraining bar
that holds me tight. I fight and strive but
its only when I stop that freedom
comes, the harmony of the whole.

And here, as I submit myself,
my soul taken and woven deep
within, the picture finally forms
as lines combine and grow and sing.

As a musician I long for those precious moments when you’re able to let go and let the music take over and transport you.
(16.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Poem 821 – Mother Sunday Words

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Mothering Sunday:
I call to say I love you,
You moan in return.

Have I been chastised?
Once, I would have dreaded that,
Now I’d ask for more.

Now you have no words:
Someone left your tap running,
Drained them all away.

May my few combine
With your heartfelt emotion
And fulfil us both.

Mum can no longer talk making this a bittersweet Mothering Sunday.
(15.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by FlyD on Unsplash

Poem 820 – The British Museum

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Bewildering corridors disorien-
tate,
cause us to lose all sense of
direction, anchor in time and place.
Down
ancient rabbit holes we
plunge, exploring other
worlds. Past
sarcophagi
and samurai
we twist
and turn
until
a burst of light and space
and caffeine smells and shops
and tripping out into
a parallel dimension,
full of busy streets
and bulging bright red buses.

Had a lovely time today exploring the wonders of the British Museum with friends. What an amazing place.
(14.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 819 – Night Sounds

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Clockwork clattering under the wheels of passing
traffic upon an abandoned metal sign,
its body battered by incessant punches.
The pendulous pulse of wind upon the house,
lifting creaky floorboards and sighing sheets.
Fence panels wait for telekinesis’ toss.
We sleep uneasily, the night feels haunted.

A noisy night last night…
(13.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash

Poem 818 – Them Foreigners

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Sometimes, I wonder who the foreigners are?
The ones housed in a nearby hotel I’ve come
to know, whose humanity has touched my soul?
Who had to turn away, with shuddering shoulders,
fearful for their family in Iran?
The ones who persevered, despite their stuttering
tongues, to find a way across the gap?
Who strove to get a job and contribute,
caring in ways that we cannot or won’t?
Or those celebrating its closing down
by insisting ‘them foreigners aren’t welcome here’?

The more I’ve got to know our neighbours, the more I’ve seen our shared humanity.
(12.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lisa Marie Theck on Unsplash

Poem 817 – The Hobbies

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Two graceful ballerinas scything
through the muggy, post-storm air.
A dart of russet tights and arc
of speckled chest, they swoop in turn
through freckled clouds of flying insects,
delighting in the ease at dining.

We stand and for awhile that’s all,
this choreography and us,
until the air begins to clear.
Then they too dissipate, leaving
us earthbound, leaden, wondering if
we’ll ever see their like again.

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Andy Morffew licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license

I started reading J.A. Baker’s The Peregrine today. It brought to mind the one and only time my wife and I saw two hobbies flying over the River Lee. An amazing sight.
(11.03.26)