Month: Aug 2025

Poem 605 – The Great Escape

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We never saw the plotting and scheming,
Committees meeting under our noses.
Did they excavate under a vault,
To dig deep tunnels under the floor?
Or build a glider to fly from the table,
To run with freshly forged false papers?
Encouraged by the open door
In a bid for freedom, the cricket jumped
Out of the box, across the floor,
Across the carpet, its great escape.
But alas, its accent gave it away,
And rather than a McQueen moment,
An iconic final do or die,
I trapped it under a plastic cup…

Our son keeps crickets to feed his frogs and newts. Occasionally we spot them crossing the floor or climbing the wall…
(11.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 604 – Victoria Line

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Walthamstow Central,
   The doors slide open,
Blackhorse Road,
   Beckoning us on,
Tottenham Hale
   Entering warily,
And Seven Sisters,
   Surreptitiously spying.
Finsbury Park
   We clatter and sway,
And Highbury and Islington,
   Involuntary community,
King’s Cross St. Pancreas,
   Friends and strangers,
Euston and Warren Street,
   Close yet distant.
Then Oxford Circus,
   A blurring of boundaries,
Victoria and Pimlico,
   Of personal space,
Vauxhall and Brixton,
   A sigh of relief,
We’re spewn out together,
   At the end of the line.

Travelling on the Victoria Line today, I realised how well the station names scanned with train like rhythm.
(10.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dan Roizer on Unsplash

Poem 603 – An Ode to the A303

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A303 (and associated roads),
nothing else can match your timeless reach!
Neighbouring Stonehenge has mystified us,
entranced us for millennia,
but even it pales into insignificance
compared to your majestic tarmac track.

We happily travel miles to congregate,
line up like creeping snakes to see your span.
Meditating for hours in your presence,
we while away the hours in wordless wonder,
as time stands still, as do we too, in cars
that queue for hours and hours and hours and hours…

The journey home from holiday in Devon today was not the quickest…
(09.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ana Paula Grimaldi on Unsplash

Poem 602 – The (Un)Common Swift

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Eternally on the wing, the swift circles
and weaves in dreams of constant summer blue.
Here, trapped in two dimensions, I can’t conceive
how it must feel to never touch the ground;
to eat, to sleep, to meet, conceive and sing
all lacking sense of permanence below.
It sounds so liberating yet exhausting,
expansive yet without the roots called home.
Common? No, she is extraordinary.

The last couple of days the air had been filled with the sight and sound of swifts on the wing. Amazing birds (see https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/swift)
(08.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 601 – Past/Present Identity

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Yesterday we delved into the past,
Chasing ancestors down ancient Devon streets.
Today, instead of lost ancestors, we found
The present in your picturesque terraces.
A surprise collision in Appledore’s Market Street
With contemporary branches of our family tree,
Reminded us that the past begets the present,
That gravestones generate identity.

Someone reads my poems! Much to our surprise Kate’s cousins read my poem about Bideford and got in touch because they were also in the area. Today last and present met.
(07.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 600 – Hunting Hores

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Hunting Hores in Northam
Finding Fursdons of Fore Street
Hoping for Hugh’s headstones
In Margaret’s grand retreat
Unpicking John Lock’s locale
Crossing off Cross Street
Retracing the tracks of relies
And following their feet
We’re on an ancestry adventure
A holiday in time
And as we find their fingerprints
I’m turning it into rhyme

Day two of our holiday in Bideford. Today we headed into Northam to track down the in-law’s ancestors. And yes, the first surname has been the source of many jokes over time… (St. Margaret’s is the local church).
(06.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 599 – Bideford

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The sound of seagulls, coastal breeze,
a solace from the daily scene.
Here Tarka swims tugged by the tide
beneath the ancient long bridge wide,
and water babies also dive
deep waters, seeking Westward Ho!
But sadly three became undone,
three daughters died, for witchcraft hung.
But now, where rope makers wove their wares,
the sun shines down shedding our cares.

We arrived in Bideford today, a fascinating town with a tapestry of literary and historical connections.
(05 08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 598 – Modern Laws of Physics

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The contents of the freezer expand to fill all available space, plus some
Packing always takes longer than expected
Weather changes when schools break up
The distance to the service station is a constant
Going into extra time guarantees penalties
Age is inversely proportionate to the number of festival headliners recognised
The youth of today will moan about the youth of tomorrow who will moan about…
Satnavs cannot pronounce Stevenage (Stev-en-age?!)

A variety of ‘laws’ that have come up in conversation this week.
(04.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Thomas T on Unsplash

Poem 596 – The Robin

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He stood so still, I almost didn’t spot him.
Once, his coat was like the one your mother
bought you, saying you’ll grow into it;
he has. Its scruffy now, its tatty edges stretching, fresh orange feathers finally poking through.
Whilst manhood beckons, he has so much to learn.
He eyes me quizzically, wondering if I can
be trusted, if I am a threat. I’m not.
Decision made we stand there eye to eye,
two fellow creatures looking soul to soul.
I’m held until he breaks his gaze, and twitching,
skips into the shade of a nearby waiting bush.

We have a juvenile robin in our garden at the moment, with whom I exchanged a precious moment this morning.
(02.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025