Poem 964 – Frederic’s Plot (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Now at this time one Frederic
Searched high and low and far,
Enquiring of our Hereward’s presence,
With plans to sieze him with mighty menace,
To hand him over to pay his penance,
Or lift his head upon a high fence,
Thus demonstrate his deeds as offence,
The motive of his heart.

His plan? To earn King William’s favour,
Secure himself a seat,
Within the Conqueror’s noble court,
Thinking that he surely ought,
Be found therein and highly thought of
By surf and lord apiece.

But Hereward heard of this attempt
Upon his life and freedom,
And so he raised a warrior band,
And with them searched throughout the land,
Until he found him plotting plans,
To work out how to sieze him.

And so he turned things upside down
And jumped on Frederic
And before he had the chance to fight,
He swung his sword with all his might,
And caused his head to swift alight,
With only one fast flick!

Time to get back to The Ballad of the Wake. Settling down tonight, I realised I’d jumped a key scene that is refered back to later when William de Warenne seeks revenge for his brother, Frederic’s, death.
(06.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Henry Hustava on Unsplash

Poem 963 – Lost in Hunstanton

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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