Alas, tonight we failed
to save the world. We tried
but sometimes trying’s not
enough. Sometimes hope
requires a lucky hand.
An early epidemic meant we were up against it from the start.
(21.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Poem 826 – For the Innocent of Iran
The days are light and spring is here.
Winter now seems a distant coup
and so I was confused when you
proclaimed with joy, Happy New Year.
Nowruz Mobarak, ‘happy new day!’
On hearing playful birds’ fresh tunes
and admiring the new born blooms,
the penny dropped, it’s more sense this way.
And so I wish you hope this instant.
Whichever start you mark, I pray
that amongst the shelling you may stay
faithful, and find there hope persistent.
It’s the Iranian New Year today, or so I learnt from my new Iranian friend at our Conversation Cafe. My prayers are with his family and the ordinary people of Iran, those caught up in a war inflicted upon them by those in power.
(20.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Chris Linnett on Unsplash
Poem 825 – The Silver Birch
The slender arm that reaches to the sky
remains naked, its undressed bark is bare
and pale, a sleeve of velvet moss alone
adorns it. This will not last as summer comes
and soon a parasol of gentle leaves
will bud to shade it from the dazzling blaze.
Enjoyed a brief walk after lunch, suddenly Spring is upon us.
(19.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Danny De Vylder on Unsplash
Poem 824 – Potential
I was only looking for something clumsily
knocked behind our exhausted kitchen units.
For once I’m glad of silly hamfisted blunders…
Taking off the wooden panel revealed
the cup lids lurking in a darkened corner.
Grasping them triumphantly I found
my fingers strangely damp and stained with earth.
Wet? It doesn’t rain down there and yet
the evidence suggests otherwise…
A mobile phone becomes a makeshift torch
illuminating spiderwebs and trash,
an eerie realm of quirky, eccentric shadows.
Contrasting with the dark are silver streaks,
glistening like precious ore deposits,
momentarily magical until
the mundane reasserts itself. This is
not wealth but water, treacherous and slick.
I search and search until I find the source,
the finest spray from an unassuming valve.
Even the mighty Nile begins like this,
and like a river, such current flows and spreads.
Do not dismiss the potential of small things.
Thankfully, we were able to fix it. Hopefully it will dry out without too much damage to the flooring…
(18.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Brandon DesJarlais on Unsplash
Poem 823 – Dusk Ensemble
The dusk ensemble strikes its opening chord.
This raucous riot erupts in glorious song
as ember hues embrace the coming night.
Too brief, their ringing serenade arrests
us as it sounds across our valley skies.
A short walk after a busy day was brightened by a wonderful chorus of birdsong.
(17.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Francesco Alberti on Unsplash
Poem 822 – Lost and Found
I’m lost within the weft and warp.
My fingers follow strings to pick
a path within its maze, a trail
within the tapestry of sound.
I strive to see the exit but
each harmony arrests and holds
me in its grasp. I squirm and dance
from line to line with no avail.
Each strand becomes a constraining bar
that holds me tight. I fight and strive but
its only when I stop that freedom
comes, the harmony of the whole.
And here, as I submit myself,
my soul taken and woven deep
within, the picture finally forms
as lines combine and grow and sing.
As a musician I long for those precious moments when you’re able to let go and let the music take over and transport you.
(16.03.26)
Poem 821 – Mother Sunday Words
Mothering Sunday:
I call to say I love you,
You moan in return.
Have I been chastised?
Once, I would have dreaded that,
Now I’d ask for more.
Now you have no words:
Someone left your tap running,
Drained them all away.
May my few combine
With your heartfelt emotion
And fulfil us both.
Mum can no longer talk making this a bittersweet Mothering Sunday.
(15.03.26)
Poem 820 – The British Museum
Bewildering corridors disorien-
tate,
cause us to lose all sense of
direction, anchor in time and place.
Down
ancient rabbit holes we
plunge, exploring other
worlds. Past
sarcophagi
and samurai
we twist
and turn
until
a burst of light and space
and caffeine smells and shops
and tripping out into
a parallel dimension,
full of busy streets
and bulging bright red buses.
Had a lovely time today exploring the wonders of the British Museum with friends. What an amazing place.
(14.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Poem 819 – Night Sounds
Clockwork clattering under the wheels of passing
traffic upon an abandoned metal sign,
its body battered by incessant punches.
The pendulous pulse of wind upon the house,
lifting creaky floorboards and sighing sheets.
Fence panels wait for telekinesis’ toss.
We sleep uneasily, the night feels haunted.
A noisy night last night…
(13.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash
Poem 818 – Them Foreigners
Sometimes, I wonder who the foreigners are?
The ones housed in a nearby hotel I’ve come
to know, whose humanity has touched my soul?
Who had to turn away, with shuddering shoulders,
fearful for their family in Iran?
The ones who persevered, despite their stuttering
tongues, to find a way across the gap?
Who strove to get a job and contribute,
caring in ways that we cannot or won’t?
Or those celebrating its closing down
by insisting ‘them foreigners aren’t welcome here’?
The more I’ve got to know our neighbours, the more I’ve seen our shared humanity.
(12.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Lisa Marie Theck on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 