Poem 783 – The English Spring

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The English spring, there is no greater joy!
The rising of the sun from its long sleep,
As garden birds full-throated song deploy
And glorious colour from undercover peeks.
Bodies relax, no longer stiff from cold,
Emotions thaw, our smiles at last return,
And up above the new-born leaves unfold
As from their time-shares swallows now adjourn.
Immediately our backs are shorn of shirts,
The annual quest for tans begins apace.
We know the fickle sun will soon desert us
And new found skin tone quickly start to fade.
Today the skies are blue, tomorrow grey,
Look storm clouds are already on their way.

There’s nothing more predictable then the English spring! It’s been a lovely day today, but who believes that this will last….
(24.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Aniket Bhattacharya on Unsplash

Poem 782 – A Word Out Of Place

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A word out of place is ….. awkward
It forces us to walk around it,
navigate its corners carefully
lest we should bump ourselves.

The temptation is to ….. shout,
ironic really when you think
about the reason for its angle.
But grace is difficult and costs.

Grace calls on us to be the ones
who ….. hold the tower up when things
begin to topple. This may be
against the rules we share but such is ….. love.

It’s such a shame that what should have been such a celebration of John Davidson’s work at the BAFTAS was turned into something else.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

Poem 781 – Four Years

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Four years of yearning, of young men sent to war,
since tanks on tracks raised trouble in the streets
and reason ran away as they rolled in.
Of mighty men who make games of all our lives,
who push people like pawns upon chess boards,
greedily grabbing land for their own gain.
Of tears that tear a track down mothers’ cheeks
and bombs that blow their boys to smithereens
and drones that down their unborn naive dreams.

On 24 February 2022 Russian forces entered the Ukraine marking the start of the current phase of the war between them. A poem in alliterative verse seemed an appropriate way to mark it, an ancient style to mark a modern conflict; somethings don’t really change.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jade Koroliuk on Unsplash

Poem 780 – A Dash of Colour

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Abandoned, redundant woolen gloves lie prone
upon the hallway floor beyond the door.
A lone daffodil pokes its yellow face
above the muddy grass to meet the Sun.
This unexpected sight (the Sun or flower?) is
a hint of spring after the long, damp, drag
of February, whilst on the path earthen
stains are fading like guilty fingerprints.

Suddenly today, the seasons seem to be turning. No doubt this is but a brief interlude, but it suggests the end’s in sight.
(22.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Poem 799 – In Hoc Signo Vinces

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Whilst marching with your men, a mighty vision
rose up in the sky, a sign above the Sun.
Both crisp and clear this vision of the cross
emboldened you, bright burning with the order,
go forth and in hoc signo vinces.

‘Born again’, baptised by Eusebius
and strident with new faith, you set to war
the cross enshrined on shining shields and
having defeated all who fought your fearsome sword, you sit serene upon your throne.

But in your daring did you ever doubt
such conquest by the cross of Christ who sought salvation not by sword but sacrifice?
This man made mighty by humility,
his love will ever stand above your reign.

Outside York Minster sits a statue of Constantine, the Roman Emperor who’s ‘conversation’ led to Christendom, the joining of the power of the state to the church.
(21.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 798 – York Minster

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This mighty edifice imposes itself upon
the horizon, a brutal slab of stone. It thrusts
into the sky distorting gravity;
we stand before its feet and sway.

Above an array of monarchs, saints and grotesques
stare down at us, distorted faces worn
by age and weather. Their bulging eyes follow
our fleeting lives that form and fade with the wind.

For the last few days, York Minister has been the dramatic backdrop to our lives, what an amazing building.
(20.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 797 – Curling

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The stone’s released;
two staring eyes,
are fixed on the target.
I’m gripped by the drama,
ensnared by the tension,
and oscillating
advantage. It starts
to bend and curl
and turn until…
Crack! The perfect
ricochet.

I’ve never watched curling before tonight’s Olympic men’s semi-final between Great Britain and Switzerland. Totally transfixed by it.
(19.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Immo Wegmann on Unsplash

Poem 796 – Two Leaves

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It’s cold, bitterly cold, but nothing that
steak pie and mash won’t fix along with coffee.
We sit, replete and beginning to glow, and smile
at love and friendship grown over a life-
time spent together. It’s been a day spent tracking
those who’ve walked that ancient way before us,
who intertwined and merged to form the trunk
and spreading branches of our tree. We take
our place and, longing, reach up to the sun.

It’s been a fun day exploring places my wife’s family came from and enjoying each other’s company. The photo is of Selby Abbey where one ancestor was baptised.
(18.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026