Poem 784 – Roundel Labour

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This is an experiment to see if I might
Be able to birth a roundel across nine lines
Whilst keeping its rhyming crisp and delightfully tight
…..I think it’s fine

I’m reassured this body can be divine
And leap from the page just like a bird in flight
Or flow across the tongue, the finest wine

It shouldn’t take a struggle or a fight
To bring this labour to life like Frankenstein
Requiring forceful lightning to ignite
…..I think it’s fine

If not sure what to write about, try out a new form!
(06.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

Poem 782 – Towards a Theology of Tyre Changing

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A concrete campus, garage forecourt,
stacks of tyres worn and discarded.
The sound of pounding machines within
and artificial scents without.
This domain’s devoid of photosynthesis;
no life, no beauty, God vacated –
even the sky is overcast.
But where can I go to escape your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
Below the mechanic works with care;
a craftsman worshipping with his tools.
In his hands electrons fire around
circuits like neurons, bringing metal
limbs to life, machine creation.
Discarded tyres will be redeemed,
reborn as seats for children’s play.

Another poem inspired by yesterday’s trip to get the tyres changed.
(04.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Egor Vikhrev on Unsplash

Poem 781 – Freewheeling

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Overcast and damp, the air
is grey and permeates my hair
as I watch old tyres being changed,
condemned for being found threadbare.

Above, in freedom, red kites range,
magnificent as they exchange
the shackles of hard earth for flight,
from gravity’s embrace estranged.

In contrast, my hubcaps are stuck tight,
the mechanic struggles, applying might
to loosen them without causing damage,
dedicated to winning this fight.

Within my ears sounds the ancient adage
about keeping on until you manage, as
at last with wheels that have been repaired,
just like the raptor, I achieve free passage.

It was a miserable morning waiting whilst my tyres were changed today, but the mood was lifted by two glorious red kites circling above.
(03.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Phil Robson on Unsplash

Poem 779 – In the Beginning

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In the beginning, the end.
The trunk lies prone across
the damp, green undergrowth,
a wetland’s edge, a world
of moss and earthy smells.
Before too long its reach
is breached, invaded by
a myriad of hopeful life
that creeps across its skin
and digs within its folds.
Roots tenderly caress
and insects penetrate –
integrity decays
as one becomes the whole and
the whole absorbs the one.
This union births a realm,
a bloom of life, and thus
the end becomes the beginning.

On our walk this afternoon we passed a tree that had been felled and deliberately let to rot and feed the life of a local patch of wetland.
(01.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Ivy Kleban on Unsplash

Poem 778 – Winter Lights

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Amongst Canary Wharf’s tall colonnades
we pause, transformed by dancing neon lights.
These bright kaleidoscopes of colour cause
the crowd in awe to stop and forget the world;
until the world joins in. The moon, full glow,
erupts to snatch the glory and the night.

Just back from a wonderful evening exploring the annual Winter Lights
(31.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 776 – Black Feather

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Flapping up high in the sycamore leaves,
Black Feather perches in the breeze.
An eye on the weather, an eye on the floor,
Black Feather watches with a wink and a caw.
A thought for the lonely who stand just as he,
a thought for the brook, for the hedge and the tree.
A thought for the orphan, a thought for the sick,
a thought for the sad as he gathered up twigs.
Black as the as darkest cave, black as the sea,
black as the sin that stains you and me.
He sees it all from his post in the sky,
Black Feather cries as he wonders why.

Just watched the first episode of Mackenzie Crook’s Worzel Gummidge, and found myself trying to write a poem that evoked an English folk saying about crows.
(29.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Semyon Borisov on Unsplash

Poem 775 – Brain Fog

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Monday’s mist has crept into my brain’s
recesses, sneaked into the sulci and found
itself at home within these thoughtful folds.
Now settled in, it’s sapped my synapses,
ground down the grey cells, dulled imagination,
leaving me with just a sudden sneeze!!!!

I seem to have developed a cold…
(28.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash