The sky unfurls.
Deep blue rolls out
To reach right to
The horizon’s edge.
Emerald hedgerows
Stand to attention,
Guardsmen alert
And on parade.
The path’s an ochre
Carpet beneath
Our feet. We tread
As honoured guests.
Above the birds
Fly in formation.
Their song trails colourfully
In their wake.
The King’s official birthday was marked by the ‘trooping of the colours’ today. A morning walk made me feel just as privileged.
(13.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Winfried Scholz on Unsplash
In sorrow Hereward took to bed
And vainly sought to sleep,
The sad news of his brother’s death,
And anger at those who stopped his breath,
Kept him tossing at great length
With red eyes from his weeping.
But then he heard the sound of song
Come from a distant crowd,
The sound of laughter and applause,
Of raucous dancing from abroad,
And harp and viols, rowdy roars,
In celebration loud.
Who are these joyful folk, he asked,
Whose gladness brings such pain?
How dare they share such happiness,
This day so near my brother’s death,
A time for mourning and distress,
Their happiness slays again!
(12.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Image Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
A few days spent in idleness,
Raging upon this news,
He finally decided to return and fight,
To see if affairs he could aright,
Assisted by his companion Lightfoot,1
To correct this abuse.
And so to Bourne he did return,
Back to his father’s manor,
And there he found much gloom and fear,
Amongst the people he held dear,
At the death of their lord’s youngest heir,
Our Hereward’s infant brother.
He’d laid upon two thugs he’d found
Dishonouring his mother,
And in disgust he took them down
To restore her honour.
But in revenge they took their swords
And swiped his head away,
And took the face of this young lord
And stuck it on display.
‘Lost Hereward, return’, they cried,
‘A mighty man they say,
He would display his great renown,
Before the night’s dark veil came down,
When man and beast in beds are found,
And all his killers slay.’
Although Hereward is far from a good man, and I’m already struggling with some of the attitudes displayed in the original writings towards ‘foreigners’, I can’t help but sense an echo of the story of the Prodigal Son in these stories, a son banished to a far land because of his lack of respect for his family, only to later come to his senses and return. But here there is no Father figure waiting for him…
(11.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by British Library on Unsplash
And so the bold outlaw set forth,
At eighteen years disowned,
To slaying braggarts, beasts and bears,
And catching wedding guests unaware,
And acquiring Swallow his swift sleek mare –
So many adventures alone!
During this time he fell in love
With Turfrida of St. Omer,
When fighting for the Count of Flanders
Against Count Guines and his fighters,
And then against the French commanders,
Holding her ever closer.
But all these tales are not for today,
Perhaps another time,
Instead the tales of his return,
When he heard that his homeland burned,
Invaders ruled his hometown Bourne,
Whilst boasting of their crimes.
Returning to The Ballad of the Wake, these verse attempt to condense his time in exile.
(10.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by British Library on Unsplash
Reynard’s daughter came trotting to our door
and stood there looking thoughtfully through the windows.
With fresh white socks and naive eyes she shone
with playfulness and youthful innocence.
Two agitated robins perched above
watching her movements. Might she be a threat?
They chittered shrilly, bouncers on helium.
She skipped away. The robins puff their chests.
Taking a break from Hereward today…
(09.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lesya Tyutrina Andrey Biyanov on Unsplash
Here is the tale of Hereward,
The one they call The Wake,
The warrior from the deepest Fen,
Who gathered around him mighty men,
To keep at bay that William,
For precious England’s sake.
Amongst his childhood friends and peers
Young Hereward caused offence,
Both tough in work and rough in play,
He grew in boldness day by day,
Determined to win in every way,
Succeeding at others’ expense.
But through this strife he grew in strength,
In arm and leg and chest,
With speed, agility, and thought,
In nimbleness he was never caught,
Overcoming all he fought,
Proving he was the best.
His Father? Leofric of Bourne,
The nephew of Earl Ralph.
His mother? Eadgyth,1 great-niece of
The famed Duke Oslac of the north.
From this fair family he set forth,
One born to rank and wealth.
In stature, sturdy and most stout
And handsome in his features.
With striking eyes and long blond hair,
He strode the land without a care,
A burly man built like a bear,
Most striking of God’s creatures.
After a while his constant quarrels,
With neighbours, friends and strangers,
Kept his parents from their sleep,
As they had to wield their swords to keep,
At bay the crowds of those he’d beat,
Now baying for blood enraged.
Inevitably this hell-raiser,
Soon fought against his father,
And wore him down with arguments
And a rebellious streak that wouldn’t relent.
So long this feud was allowed to ferment
That his Father snapped, his clothes he rent,
And with the blessings of good King Ed,2
Banished his son to the continent,
To shock the prodigal was his intent,
Into rediscovering honour.
So Hereward stormed away in anger
As heat burned in his head,
No kind words to his kin addressed,
No sin he thought should he confess,
He left them in their sore distress,
As onwards he did tread.
A few more stanzas of my Hereward ballad, edited together with those from earlier this week
(08.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Image John Cassell, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Amongst his childhood friends and peers
Young Hereward caused offence,
Both tough in work and rough in play,
He grew in boldness day by day,
Determined to win in every way,
Succeeding at others’ expense.
But through this strife he grew in strength
In arm and leg and chest,
With speed, agility, and thought,
In nimbleness he was never caught,
Overcoming all he fought,
Proving he was the best.
In stature, sturdy and most stout
And handsome in his features
With striking eyes and long blond hair
He strode the land without a care
A burly man built like a bear
Most striking of God’s creatures
A look back at Hereward’s youth
(07.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
John Cassell, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Here is the tale of Hereward,
The one they call The Wake,
The warrior from the deepest Fen,
Who gathered around him mighty men,
To keep at bay that William,
For precious England’s sake.
A hell-raiser from Lancashire,
He fought against his father,
And wore him down with arguments
And a rebellious streak that wouldn’t relent.
So long this feud was allowed to ferment
That his Father snapped, his clothes he rent,
And with the blessings of good King Ed,
Banished his son to the continent
To rediscover honour.
And so he stormed away in anger
As heat burned in his head,
No kind words to his kin addressed,
No sin he thought should he confess,
He left them in their sore distress
As onwards he did tread.
Inspired by Malcolm Guite’s ‘Galahad and the Grail’, I thought I’d try a similar ‘ballad’ approach to tell the story of Hereward the Wake. This one’s going to take more than a day to write, and so I’m going to post a bit each day as they’re drafted and see where they take me. To be continued…
(06.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
John Cassell, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Your furthest reaches are armed with bombs,
clusters of yellowing grenades primed
and ready to launch into the blue.
Anytime now you will release
them, set them free, and watch them fly,
a spinning, twirling, haze of wings.
Your children fly exploding life
wherever they land and pierce the ground.
Nearby trees are suddenly pregnant with sycamore seeds.
(05.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The darkening skies amass and wait
for me to mount my bike,
then dump their contents with a laugh
down from the heavens, an unwanted bath,
perhaps I should have chosen a raft
for this elemental fight!
It’s been a day of cycling backwards and forwards to a variety of events, meetings and services. Every time it started to rain…
(04.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Ode for the Day 
