Poem 868 – Albion’s Soul

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May Day, prepare for morris dancers,
bearded men and women (beardless)
armed with tankards, sticks and hankies,
legs adorned with chiming bells.

Here comes the Fool, their ball spinning
around their head before they strike
a member of the public un-
awares. Result? A raucous riot.

And then the Squire, the headman of
this rustic troop, who seeks to steer
them through their ancient dance that streams
throughout Old England’s leafy years.

It is no Riverdance or gold
Bolero, there’s no Nureyev
nor Sleep in sight, it’s out of date,
a clumsy, awkward, fading light.

Yet in the laughter lies an anchor,
in ritual, hazel arms that reach
to hazy days of yesteryear
and Albion’s soul and beating heart.

Our country is full of strange traditions that somehow linger on despite changing culture and lives. Their charm lies, perhaps, in a sense that they tie us to something that our modern lives have lost.
(01.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 867 – Lines

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Our yellow lines have been redone, under
the sun they shout, ‘No parking here, be gone!’
Their sleek crisp lines are unambiguous,
there is no missing their bold and muscular message
of ‘Tarry not!’ But yet their streaks are tarnished, obstructed by the tyres of cars ironically
parked with flashing lights that they believe
confer immunity. They are line blind.

Passed newly painted yellow lines in the way to school this morning, glowing on the summer sun. Cars all over them.
(30.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by the blowup on Unsplash

Poem 866 – Small Prophets

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Were the minor prophets
The same as Mackenzie Crook’s,
And did they also conjure
Homunculae from books?
Did old Ezekiel
Work at B&Q?
Or was he simply shorter
Than folk like me and you?

Just emerged to find the brilliant Small Prophets on the box at the end of a full day. It won’t make sense if you haven’t seen it.
(29.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Ales Dusa on Unsplash

Poem 865 – Maintaining Life Support

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Any moment now the door will fall,
the aching walls subside too far, and shed
integrity as if it were a flimsy
shawl and crumble, decaying ribs and all.

But just before we say last rites we pause,
inside this chest a fluttering heart still beats,
a hint of sound echoes within. And look,
out pops red chest adorned with nesting straw.

Our garden shed is on its last legs, and yet again its end is stayed as a robin is nesting within.
(28.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Catriona Finlay on Unsplash

Poem 863 – Watching Reynard

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I press my nose and bristles upon the glass
leaving a smeary imprint on the pane.
My breath condenses, creating a ghostly view.
I wait for it to clear and then renew
my vigil of the wildlife on the other side.
Somehow they’re ignorant of my nighttime vigil,
playing or resting in the dying light.
They seem content, possessing a simple ease.
But then they start, I’m rumbled, so I turn,
my white tipped tail the last thing that they see.

Reynard came to our sitting room window last night and for a moment we stared at each other.
(26.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jeremy Vessey on Unsplash

Poem 862 – Anywhere the Wind Blows?

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Humility, a fragile flower blown
by wind and whim, its petals pulled in weakness,
confetti scattered at others’ casual command?

Or robust root, a quiet confidence
that’s born in understanding who you are,
releasing shoots that see and serve and love?

I was at the funeral today of a friend and mentor, a strong, quiet, humble man.
(25.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Poem 861 – One Week With Foodbank

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Shunted many parcels
Stared at folk on Zoom
Sought new volunteers
Pushed tables round the room

Paid the vehicle tax
Practised pastoral care
Threw away the trash
Put out requests for prayer

Made a new trustee and
Welcomed first time guests
Tussled with I.T. and
Pondered what was best

Much of my time at the moment is caught up with foodbank as we go through period of transition.
(24.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 860 – Seeking Lothlórien

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My quiet place, site of transfiguration,
green sanctuary before the trials begin.
I walk between your slender trunks, inhale,
and feel your peace invade the deepest corners.
The dappled light caresses me, your leaves
massage my soul. Here, in your gentle shade,
my pulse slows down, my breathing calms and fears
take shape. No longer nebulous they are
reduced and I am raised. My shoulders straighten,
back aligns and chin lifts up. The chiffchaff
laughs, singing to my core, restoring order.
Inaudible, your water’s deep joins in,
a living bass sounding permanence.
Strolling, the different colours of the seasons
rotate: spring’s budding green gives way to summer’s
blue, before the autumn’s sweet decay
to winter’s monochrome. With each a different
chorus echoes, from warblers’ ecstasy
to cuckoos’ mournful sigh. With every scent,
each call and tint, the grace of hope is given.

A comment by the poet Malcolm Guite about the need for places like Tolkien’s Lothlórien, or moments like the disciples witnessing the transfiguration in order to be refreshed and enabled to cope with the challenges and trials of life, made me wonder where I turn to. Wandering through the nearby River Lee is certainly one such place.
(23.04.26)

© Ben Quant 2026