Sifting through old tapes
Memories resurrected
Fitting for today
After a packed morning service this morning, I’ve enjoyed a day with family, so only a short one today.
(20.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Josh Chiodo on Unsplash
Month: Apr 2025
Poem 490 – A Royal Welcome
Today we walk as royalty on our way,
Illuminated by the chestnuts’ light.
Above, a buzzard monitors the crowd
Of rapeseed, waving yellow flags in joy.
A chiffchaff serenades us with a song and
Summer’s first swift performs its daring flypast.
Our daughter’s home for the weekend, so we thought we’d repeat the first leg of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk with her.
(19.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 489 – The End?
Time’s up
Run out
Lost cause
No doubt
Bitter end
No hope
Flat battery
End of the rope
Last orders
A closing chapter
Dying words
Killed in anger
The final nail
Struck in the rod
It is finished
The Son of God
The curtain ripped
The sky turned black
But have no fear
He will be back
A poem for Good Friday. John 19:30 meets Arnie Schwarzenegger…
(18.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
Poem 488 – Missing Mary
When I arrived you’d shout my name, ‘Ben’,
and beckon me over with an insistent wave.
A kiss on the cheek, and an enquiry as to where
I live. ‘Near to your daughter’ I’d reply.
You gave everybody your attention,
knew all your neighbours names and how they were,
although you’d talk about them too loudly, and asked after us and our families, one after the other.
At some point in the service you’d break
into a rendition of, ‘Oh When the Saints!’ –
it didn’t seem to matter when or why.
Eventually, I’d find the key and play along.
We’d swap stories of Scotland, holidays,
and churches we’d attended in our times.
Marching above with your beloved saints
Are you still heckling beyond the pearly gates?
I learnt today that a friend at the local nursing home where I take services died recently. Goodbye Mary, and thank you.
(17.04.25)
Poem 487 – Old Eyes
A thousand faces stacked upon the desk.
Rewinding back in time, their faces flux,
the layers peel, year after year, devolving
to disclose the child back at the start.
Upon the floor I see myself, only,
at first I do not recognize this stranger.
The face looking up at me there is not
the face I wear today, its features shod.
But it’s always the eyes that give the game away
as eye to eye we size each other up,
mirrors of the soul reflecting upon
each other in perpetual recognition.
Whilst I’ve been working, my wife has been sorting through old photos next to me. Quite a trip down memory lane.
(16.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 486 – Ministry At Easter
Increasing tension,
As the deadline approaches,
Demands attention.
Talks and events are coming thick and fast!
(15.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash
Poem 485 – First Up
A book, a cup of tea,
Bird song for company,
And the breathing silence
Of a sleeping house.
The silence is alive.
Listening, I take stock,
Take note of vital signs:
The rhythm of its clock,
The creaking of its ribs,
Airflow through passages.
Slowly she starts to stir;
Occasional murmurs grow
In frequency and strength
Until a final stretch
And up, at last, it gets.
I was up first today, and had my breakfast on my own. This poem started then, both as a reflection on the quietness, but also a chance to play around a little with rhyme.
(14.04.25)
Poem 484 – But On A Donkey?
A rolling writhing
Sea of sound
Hope and hands rising
The roar of the crowd
A swelling number
Rebellious mood
Their chanting thunders
Their branches strewed
Crying hosanna
A country wronged
Occupied land whose
People long
Testimonies weighed
And signs observed
Their verdict made
Announcing him lord
A quick poem at the end of an enjoyable Palm Sunday.
(13.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash
Poem 483 – The Birds Have Spoken
This year I got in early
and started ‘No Mow May’ in
January. Now the grass
is tufty and embedded
with dandelion splashes.
It might not win awards
or have those tasteful stripes,
but the birds all seem to love it
and that’s a prize to me.
As spring erupts, our garden’s come to life. First thing the lawn’s awash with birds, pecking for food and heating material.
(12.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 482 – Pètanque
SMACK! Smashed gravel flies.
A shower of shards are scattered
as the boule descends.
Crashing into its target,
it sends it scything across
the crunching gravel court.
With pumping fists, the players
cheer, opponents groan,
their pole position lost.
One final fling, all hope
is pinned on nicking the nearest
boule placed by the jack.
A pause for silent prayer
before the bending player
looses their last chance…
Today we spent a lovely sunny time with friends, culminating in a tight hand of petanque. We lost, joy won.
(11.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 