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

Poem 953 – Encounters On the Tube

He sees her canine companion and asks
if he may stroke it. She says yes
and soon they’re talking, clicking, smiling.
Names are exchanged, one Brit, one Greek,
but alas this is her stop. She panics.
Are you on Facebook? No, he says,
but by now the doors are closing down
on alternatives and what could be.

Meanwhile, in another carriage she pouts,
arranges her hair and lips and lashes,
and purring, poses for her phone
(it’s neatly perched between her nails).
She loves it and hopes the feeling’s mutual.
It’s safe at least and undemanding,
but underneath she hungers for
the danger of uncertainty.

I love people watching on the tube. These were both scenes I saw on a journey today `although they weren’t simultaneous as the poem suggests. The contrast between them was fascinating.
(26.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

Poem 952 – Evening Walk

A lazy walk along the River Lee.
Passing pink clouds dissipate and fade in
transitory trails, the evening’s tiring sun.
The air is empty, no birds announce their presence.
All is still. Responding we stroll in whispers.

A quiet walk at the end of another busy day.
(25.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 949 – Ely Hears the News (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

The news of Hereward’s return soon spread
And reached the Abbot Thurstan,
Who wrote from Ely deep in the Fen,
Where he and other most resolute men,
Were set upon a brave defence,
Against King William and contend,
His stubborn decision to impose a French monk
Over every one of them,
Down to the very last person.

O Ely, island of the marsh,
Beloved by Mother Fen,
Whose towers stand above its mists,
And tenderly its wetlands kiss,
Concealing paths and trails that twist,
From eyes of devious men.

Word of Hereward’s return reaches the Isle of Ely.
(22.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo Bob Jones / Ely Cathedral / CC BY-SA 2.0

Poem 947 – One Day

Today I buried Reynard,
Enjoyed a coffee in Spoons,
And was mistaken for Thomas Tuchel.

Today I sat beneath,
A ghostly barn owl fly-past,
And partial rusty moon.

Today has been surreal,
Disturbing and exciting,
And sometimes awe-inspiring

A long and busy day.
(20.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lou Barros on Unsplash