Poem 873 – Plastic Surgery

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‘Sit still’ she said and went behind
me to investigate. A sharp
intake of breath. ‘This is not good,’
she uttered, ‘but do not be alarmed.’

A look of utter concentration.
She raised some pliers to my neck
and clenched her tongue between her teeth,
and started to repair defects.

The room went silent and all zoomed in
upon that point of crisis where
she worked. A range of focused grunts
accompanied her efforts. Care-

fully she reached for varied tools,
a saw, a wrench, hammer and drill
sometimes even two at once
and worked with dreadful haste until

exclaiming, ‘It is fixed!’ Stepping
back to view her handiwork
she placed her plastic tools aside
and called her Mum to come and look.

Mum just smiled and winked at me,
‘Her dad fancies himself as a bit
of a handyman,’ she laughed until…
she swung a wrench and hit her knee!

Toddler group today and the toy tools were out. Towards the end I became the source of quite an operation.
(06.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by benjamin lehman on Unsplash

Poem 871 – Evensong

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Sunday evening, sat in church praying,
Our stumbling voices stutter to
A halt, uncertain of how to talk.

Sitting uncertain in our circle,
We’re startled from staring at our feet
When suddenly a new voice speaks –

A jubilant robin, his joyous song
Penetrating the awkward silence
Sounding loudly inside our sanctuary.

His trilling tongue entices us;
A Jacob’s Ladder leading from heaven
To lift us to the Lord above.

His notes remove the massing gloom
And melody delights and lifts us;
Before too long we find our voices.

In Sunday’s evening service we were treated to a beautiful solo.
(04.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

Poem 870 – Headlights

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This tunnel through the spongy dark
reveals a flattened hazy realm.
The light is fuzzy, indistinct, and
sudden peripheral interruptions
sharply protrude from either flank.
Beyond remains alert, unknown.
I drive on through this foreign land
aware that I’m intruding here.
The halo follows me but as
we move the blackness rushes in,
devouring what is left behind.
I am an island in the night
fearful of moving fast and worried
of what might happen if I stop.

I drove up to my Dad tonight. The last miles are across country, down unlight country roads, which in the dark begins strangely sentient.
(03.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Philipp Katzenberger on Unsplash

Poem 869 – The Jackdaw

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Stationary upon its scaffolding pole,
The cowled jackdaw keeps its eery stare,
An ancient watch atop a modern perch.

Its mate descends to claim a cold partner;
A twitch of midnight feathers and it too
Stands still, two beaks in frozen parallel.

I turn to look with them, wondering what
They watch so motionless. I can not tell;
What plane do these four focused eyes perceive?

I shudder sensing that they see elsewhere,
Penetrating flesh and blood and bones
Perceiving naked souls hiding within.

The house behind ours is currently having an extension built and the local jackdaws have abandoned our trees for the tops of its scaffolding poles.
(02.05.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Daniil Komov on Unsplash

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