Poem 811 – Fading…

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Rereading this week’s poems
I find myself concerned
It seems that I am fading
New ways each day in turn

On Monday I lost hair
On Wednesday it was words
Today I find it’s sight
My prescription has got worse

At this rate by the weekend
With this ongoing theft
Of sight and sound and hairlines
There might be nothing left

A vacuum in the room
A space where I once stood
A gap in human memory
By absence now obscured

Inspired by a visit to the opticians this morning – it’s not as bad as it sounds!
(05.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Pavlo Pavliuk on Unsplash

Poem 810 – Lost Wor(l)ds

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Forgotten words no longer used,
a language of the past that haunts
our tongue, I tenderly trace your text
and search your shapes in hope of meaning.

Were these passages profound
in thought, philosophy supreme,
or simply shopping lists and gossip,
our daily scratched humanity?

Did you think like us and dream
upon the page, playing with words
simply for the sake of it?
Or were your words just functionary?

One day, these words I’m typing now
will also be forgotten, echoes
of a long gone world, and merely
reproduced lines upon the screen.

When meaning is no longer known,
our sounds silenced, shorn of sense,
when words are gone do we fade too
like aging pencil on the page?

A new challenge for the year, I’ve decided to try and learn to read Old English, intrigued by the connections between our tongue and theirs.
(04.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo first lines of Beowulf from the damaged Nowell Codex courtesy of Wiki Commons

Poem 808 – Embrace the Grey

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As I’ve got older I’ve noticed
That grey has invaded my eye brows.
They are not alone.
Increasingly I find
It in my politics
And streaking my theology.
Gone are the days of black
and white and hairlines,
And close up I don’t see
So clearly anymore.

It’s not that I have lost
The idealism of youth,
I remain a dreamer,
But I have learnt in this world
Sometimes options are messy,
Not simply right or wrong.
This isn’t a dreary dullness,
An insipid washed out life,
But an edgy place of risk
That forces thought and faith.

I thought when I’d grown up
I’d know, you know, but no.
The certainties have gone
And all that’s left is hope,
And living on the line,
And love and love and love,
And nothing’s riskier than that.
And so I think and pray
And act and hope and trust
That Love is big enough.

Honestly demands me to admit that the older I get the less I think I know. Thankfully, amongst the debates and decisions, the question gets simpler, what does love look like here.
(02.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 807 – I Believe in Tomorrow

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Tomorrow bombs of confetti will
be dropped on those we disagree with.
Campaigns of generosity will
be inflicted on our enemies
and joyful marches will take place
protesting love for the stranger.
Tabloids will express a welcome
and social media will be social.
During elections our politicians
will say nice things about each other,
and spam bots will be used to give
good gifts to naive recipients.
Tomorrow the lion will lie with the lamb
whilst all colours will dance together.
I still believe tomorrow will come,
I do, but for now we just drop bombs.

I refuse to give up but sometimes it’s hard to hold onto hope.
(01.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Erik Brolin on Unsplash

Poem 806 – J

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For just one fleeting year we shared a home,
our lives briefly intertwined, grafted
together as family. But then that day,
that desperate day, your branch was torn away.

This wrenching moment lingers unresolved;
do you remember me across the years,
the childlike joy and tantrums that we shared?
Where are you now and who have you become?

My hope? Your dislocated branch may have become
a cutting, finding new and fertile soil,
from where today your roots dig deeply and
your mighty boughs stretch out into the blue.

I lodged for a year with a family whose children were later put in care. I often wonder what became of them.
(28.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by olga brajnovic on Unsplash

Poem 804 – The River

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Tonight I write a line or two to keep
A habit flowing forwards. Like a stream,
Sometimes it finds itself a driving force,
But other days it ambles round slow bends
and detours, lost in dreams and dozy swells.
But either way the current calls it on,
An irresistible tug, a tide, demanding,
‘Cast your words into the aching blue.’

Writing a daily poem has become a deeply ingrained habit. I’d feel wrong if I didn’t.
(26.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by ANHELINA OSAULENKO on Unsplash

Poem 803 – The English Spring

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The English spring, there is no greater joy!
The rising of the sun from its long sleep,
As garden birds full-throated song deploy
And glorious colour from undercover peeks.
Bodies relax, no longer stiff from cold,
Emotions thaw, our smiles at last return,
And up above the new-born leaves unfold
As from their time-shares swallows now adjourn.
Immediately our backs are shorn of shirts,
The annual quest for tans begins apace.
We know the fickle sun will soon desert us
And new found skin tone quickly start to fade.
Today the skies are blue, tomorrow grey,
Look storm clouds are already on their way.

There’s nothing more predictable then the English spring! It’s been a lovely day today, but who believes that this will last….
(24.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Aniket Bhattacharya on Unsplash

Poem 802 – A Word Out Of Place

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A word out of place is ….. awkward
It forces us to walk around it,
navigate its corners carefully
lest we should bump ourselves.

The temptation is to ….. shout,
ironic really when you think
about the reason for its angle.
But grace is difficult and costs.

Grace calls on us to be the ones
who ….. hold the tower up when things
begin to topple. This may be
against the rules we share but such is ….. love.

It’s such a shame that what should have been such a celebration of John Davidson’s work at the BAFTAS was turned into something else.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash