Poem 916 – The Ballad of the Wake: Nighttime Gates

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In fury Hereward summoned his maid,
‘Let’s visit these foul folk!’
And took his breastplate and his helm
And trusty sword, that was sharpened well
And hid them under a blackened veil
Beneath her flowing cloak.

Approaching under the cover of night
They came upon the gates
And there they found a head impaled,
A head he sadly knew too well,
It was his brother brutally nailed,
In boast about his fate.

With sorrow he sighed and brought it down,
In quiet solemnity,
And kissed it in his loving care,
With tears he combed his tangled hair,
And lifted him to the Lord in prayer,
And cursed this devilry.

Hereward decides to visit those who killed his brother.
(18.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Quan Jing on Unsplash

Poem 915 – Six Minutes

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Six minutes in, a penalty’s awarded!
A collective cheer and then the nation teeters,
Caught between the possibility
Of painful hope and previous could-have-beens.
An awkward miss, reminders of the past,
And here we go again. ‘So soon?’ we groan…
But VAR and trailing legs, a gift
of grace, and this time Kane dispatches it
And in that crazy moment England dreams.

Whilst writing this three more goals went in… Who knows how this will end.
(17.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by (Augustin-Foto) Jonas Augustin on Unsplash

Poem 914 – Mike

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Thunderbirds are go,
or so you used to say
(unlike the trains you loved –
are those llamas on the track?!)

Ham sandwiches and mustard,
you waved me on my way,
with home made flags and cheering,
on my saddle-bound holiday.

(Remember the size of the restaurant
plates we ate from? So large
I thought we’d never make it
to the end. You did.)

Sniggering in meetings.
Inappropriate jokes
at serious moments. Laughter
invaded toil and lightened.

As a mentor in Salone,
generous in wisdom.
Gaps between meetings grow
but birthday cards still come.

Until this year. They stopped,
I fear, no more. We used
to pick up where we left off.
One day, I pray, we will.

We said goodbye to a dear friend yesterday. It isn’t a great poem and won’t make to much sense to others, but it’s been good to remember shared moments in the past.
(16.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 912 – Gardening Companions

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Sunday afternoon and the gardening’s done.
Satisfied, I stop, sit back and observe.
Gleeful goldfinches chitter with delight,
their happy chatter calls to my innocence.
I smile a childlike smile. Meanwhile, a nearby
robin perches, posing like a head-
cocked model caught in curiosity.
She stares, I stare back; we are connected.
Blue tits flit incessantly from one thing
to the next; their frantic avian minds
unable to stand still. I watch them fly
delighted that I, however, managed to do so.

The poem says it all really, a lovely moment at the end of an afternoon’s work.
(14.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jim Summerson on Unsplash

Poem 911 – Trooping the Colours

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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

Poem 910 – The Ballad of the Wake: Mourning Disturbed

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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

Poem 909 – The Ballad of the Wake: Return to Bourne

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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

Poem 908 – Ballad of The Wake: Hereward in Exile

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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

Poem 907 – The Visitor

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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