Poem 939 – Appeasing Mother Fen (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Old Mother Fen this is your tale
And so we greet you first,
We toss a sword into the wet,
Acknowledging your primal threat,
A humble token of respect
With which to slake your thirst.

Our sword is new and freshly forged
And never drawn in anger,
It’s made for you at great expense,
A blade that’s offered like incense,
To calm your hunger, make you content,
Receive us in your land.

And now our duty is performed
Our narrative can start,
With introductions of our cast,
A look back to a violent past,
To welcome Hereward at last,
And the tale of which he’s part.

Thinking about the setting off this ballad, I found myself remembering Flag Fen in Peterborough and the sword found there which formed some sort of offering. That significantly predates our tale, but it somehow felt appropriate to appropriate it for the start of my ballad, a memory echoed in Arthurian Legend now applied to Hereward, another resistance fighter.
(12.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Maria Miguel Cardeiro on Unsplash

Poem 938 – The Passage

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Our kayak slides along the dark, still water.
Here no ripples form, all sound is dampened.
Distant lungs breathe in, the weighty air
constricts and reaching trees bow down in greeting.

We whisper, fearing to disturb this timeless
passage; what lies within its pulsing vein?
I sense some sentience observing me
within, some foreign mind forming judgements.

We’re steered forwards, towards the distant light,
invited by its possibility,
all the time suppressing the nagging doubt
that something is amiss. We close our eyes.

Within the ocean deep, they say, there lurk
treacherous creatures that lure their prey with bio-
luminescence. Attracted by unnatural
suns their victims swim into their mouths.

Inspired by a photo and discussion shared in an online forum I’m part of. Photo taken kayaking in Northern Winsconsin.
(11.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo WickedDarkPhotography

Poem 936 – Drosophila

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A glorious name for something
as humble as a fruitfly.
A mere milimetre,
a comma in the air
punctuating the bowl
of warm and ripening bananas.
An overlooked contestant
in evolution’s race?
Perhaps, as whilst I wilt
under this heatwave’s sun
you’re born in paragraphs,
a cloud of dancing pauses.

Working today, I became aware of fruit flies, my companions from biochemistry days, accompanying me once more.
(09.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0

Poem 935 – The Wreck

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Now exposed to the elements,
your striped back bones are bleached
and fading fast. You tilt to dip
your toes into the welcome water
and, finding its embrace enticing,
you slowly slide under its sheets,
a cautious paddler, one inch at a time.

A boat has been abandoned in the river at the foot of our road. Whilst it’s an unsafe eyesore, it’s also fascinating to watch it gradually decay.
(08.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 934 – Grace Overcomes (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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They set upon him fearlessly
Encircling our man,
With hungry blades and thirsting eyes,
They inwards stepped with violent cries,
And sought with force to take their prize,
With murder as their plan.

They did not care for chivalry,
Nor how he stood alone,
They only cared for their success,
With hatred rising in their chests,
And boiling blood, feelings intense,
And anger in their bones.

They went to take him where he stood,
To cleave him heart from soul,
But just as all was surely lost,
A number of them turned because,
Their conscience made them count the cost,
Of killing one so bold.

They faced their brothers of the sword
And ordered them away,
‘It is an act of cowardice,
To kill a man this way!’

Some ran at once their faces grim,
Whilst others did delay,
Until a comrade of the Wake
Did through their circle urgent break,
To leave them standing jaws agape,
As he spirited him away.

And so, escaped with heart and soul,
His saviours Hereward praised,
Both he who on his horse broke through,
And those who turned, the chivalrous few,
Who bought him time, despite the seven he slew,
To fight another day.

This bright report soon quickly spread
Across both camps with speed,
The honour of his tale’s account,
The generosity his foes espoused,
Compassion showed from grace’s fount,
To the man they once all feared.

And with same speed his fame soon spread,
And peace broke out with joy,
And gifts were poured on our great lord,
The best of gifts they could afford,
Sourced here at home and far abroad,
By former foes now joined.

I left Hereward in a precarious position a few days ago, a classic cliffhanger. Does he escape? And how?
(07.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Mikhail Mamaev on Unsplash

Poem 933 – Lethargic Poet

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Can I be bothered?
The weekend was long
and I’m feeling weary.
But above the swifts
are wheeling still
and I’m put to shame.
Perhaps I ought
to rouse myself…
Maybe tomorrow.

Yesterday I had a five hour drive back from near Exeter and today is hot. You almost got a haiku…
(06.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 931 – The Chapel

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A place of steeped in prayer,
Where liturgies of hope,
Have polished heart and beams.
Where panels echo to
The beat of spirits’ breath,
And stones are smoothed by grace.
We join the timeless one,
Converging generations,
Come, Lord Jesus, come!

Inspired by a chapel at the centre where I’ve been leading a retreat for the Sierra Leone Mission today.
(04.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026