Poem 963 – Lost in Hunstanton

Above, burnt ochre buildings line the streets.
Pensioners potter along the prom, wistfully
wishing for what’s been gradually washed away.

Below, a lonely pigeon looks across the
littered shell fragments lying lost to time
and tide, as trickling memory takes and steals.

Beyond, a rusting wreck decays. Wrapped in seaweed ribbons it rests and dreams of rites
of passage past and present and yet to come.

We spent a lovely day today wandering around Old Hunstanton, and as we wandered various lines began to coalesce.
(05.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 962 – The Imagination of Rain

The imagination of rain.
A dream that calls forth life
in torrents of shapes and sizes.
Thoughts that whisper strands
of DNA helixes,
a multitude of colours
and possibility.
Ideas externalised
in passing forms,
mirroring those made flesh.
Creativity
dispersed to root and river.

Although the clouds threatened in Hunstanton today, we only got to enjoy a brief hint of rain, no more. It was enough to cause the title of this poem to come to mind, however.
(04.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 961 – Eroded

The Wash slides in and reaches over
in a gentle but relentless flow.
Its touch is tender but love is not
always thoughtful or reciprocated.
It feels as if we might be slowly
consumed, grain by single grain.

An evening stroll along the front at Hunstanton.
(03.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 959 – The River

The river undulates,
a snake-like peristalsis
wrapping around the city.
It lets us ride upon
its rolling back, for now,
but don’t forget it isn’t
tame – at any time
the Thames may turn and bite,
a bitter serpent bite.

Enjoyed a day upon the Thames today, but on the final stretch noted how its movements seemed alive.
(01.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 956 – At The List

Knights lift their lances and charge enlivened by
the fight for fame or chance of lady’s favour.
At the heft of hooves pounding so heavily,
the crowds start crying, eager to crown a champion.
Baying for blood, like hounds they bite and snarl
at one and will the other to win with ease,
but, fickle friends, they switch to favour those
they believe most likely to end up leaving king!

We visited Warwick Castle today and enjoyed the dramatic sights and sounds of their jousting knights. A quick poem at the end of a long hot day.
(29.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 955 – The Royalty

Art deco lines, once crisp, now stand invaded,
their borders crossed by roots and softened by
the wind that blows through blown out windows panes.
Inside the only queues are distant echoes,
first dates of yesteryear and giddy children
grasping parent’s hands and bags of sweets.
An organ plays before the ghostly reels
begin to turn and greyscale images
flicker upon the absent silver screen.
Somewhere a forgotten steward points to seats
as ancestors laugh and point and scream with joy
ignorant that their far-flung families walk by.
The shell is all we see; a failing
memory beneath a fading dome,
doors sealed and windows boarded in defiant hope.

Just down the road from where we’re staying is The Royalty, Harbone’s once resplendent art deco cinema, but now a shell despised by fire and time. Despite appearances, it somehow seems alive.
(28.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 954 – M1 Wings

Spread-eagled, fallen angel’s wings lie prone,
dark, shredded tyres reaching to the heavens.
Did they plummet violently like Icarus,
actively rebelling against their master?
Or was their end more gradual, a slow decline
like falling snow that gently fades away?
The same conclusion waits for both despite
the drama faced: a lonely, cold, hard shoulder.
So take good heed, my friend, and drive with care
not speed, and fly, eyes open, filled with love.

Driving along the motorway today I spotted the familiar sight of remnants of truck tyres lying on the hardshoulder. One strip in particular caught my attention, its edges feathered.
(27.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alexandr Popadin on Unsplash