Poem 788 – Don’t Steal Away the Magic

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Don’t take away the lure
of hidden woodland trails;
the wonder of a mystery
and striving for the grail.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Come let us wrestle monsters
with unpronounceable names.
and write our very own fables
in our own peculiar way.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Just sad or glad? You’re mad!
Please don’t confine our diction.
Throw out restraint, be free
with extravagant description.
Don’t steal away the magic.

Come, why restrict us to
perfectly formed cats and ham,
when instead we could have pizza
and misspelt dragon flan?
Don’t steal away the magic.

When words are an invitation,
a doorway to adventure,
who would decline the offer
and toss away invention?
Don’t steal away the magic.

Written in response to discussions with a teacher today.
(10.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Tom Hermans on Unsplash

Poem 787 – This Magic Place

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An annual act of anticipation,
Selecting dates for Shakespeare’s stage,
That wooden Globe in which the world,
Is magically made in marvelous ways.

The scent of sawdust tickles my senses,
The sound of sonnets, rousing song,
Hushed silence for soliloquies,
The prayers of people pulled along.

Each night it never fails to win,
Its wistful ways, this wondrous O,
And later on its legacy lingers,
This glistening gold whose tendrils glow.

We’ve been selecting dates for the Globe’s summer season ahead of it going on public sale tomorrow. A favourite place.
(09.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 786 – Mother Lee

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A chameleon, Mother Lee
changes colour with her mood.
Today she’s brown, a muddy flow
under the empty trees and rain.
She’s heavy, sluggish as if her handbrake’s
on. Tomorrow, she’ll be dark
with anger, a sullen scowling black
or maybe light and lively, green
with life, and hopeful expectation.

It never ceases to amaze me how the same stretch of river can look completely different on different days.
(08.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

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