A look of recognition,
A smile across the room,
A name remembered, used
In conversation’s flow.
An asking after mamma,
A joke about the wine,
Then checking in to see
That everybody’s fine.
The little things add up
To greater than their parts,
A trick for all to learn,
This is the waiter’s art.
We’ve been treated by Serkan and his colleagues at the restaurant here in Marmaris. They have given a real masterclass in how much difference small touches make. Thanks gents!
(10.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Behind stone doors the dead sleep on,
two thousand years and more of slumber.
They’re waiting for the trumpet call,
but what’s another year to them?
Their clothes now hang long out of fashion,
the colours faded out of sight,
their tongue has fallen still, their names
forgotten to the mists of time.
Imagine if they woke today to
this world they wouldn’t recognise,
where billionaires fly out to space
and knowledge lives in webs online.
Where hearts aren’t weighed at judgement time
but swapped if ailing to save the living,
and gold’s exchanged for virtual digits
that dwell in plastic cards of credit.
But then they’d take another look
and smile that boney smile again,
as those that have still rule the roost,
humanity has barely changed.
On our Dalyan boat trip on the 7th, we passed the Necropolis. The ‘residents’ were buried some two and a half millennia ago. Life now is surely very different and yet, somehow the same…
(09.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Finally the sun pokes past the pines.
Rising above green branches it smiles,
gracing white English limbs with warmth
as they seek refuge from winter’s reach.
Meanwhile the nuthatch nimbly flits,
descending boughs in search of food,
and hooded crows call out in squabbling
song, oblivious to our play.
Distant peaks abruptly rise, their
sharpness standing in stark relief
to the serene and tender blue that idles,
gently washing their stoney feet.
A lazy morning today sat by the pool after yesterday’s enjoyable exertions.
(08.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Stepping off the beaten track,
we stumble on a twisting way,
that reaches up towards the sky,
betwixt the ancient buildings grey.
There, sitting in a doorway hunched,
a crone of many years gone by,
surrounded by her varied wares
to sell to tourists that catch her eye.
Come see my trinkets, dear, she cried,
don’t walk on by, come look and see,
I’ve perched here 30 years have I,
sat underneath this twisted tree.
I hesitate but for a moment,
but even that was far too long,
she caught me with a gnarly hand,
her bony grip surprisingly strong.
Pray tell me, pretty one, your name,
bend close and whisper in my ear,
I will not bite, my pretty one,
there’s nothing here for you to fear…
And so I found myself lean to
against an inner shrill alarm,
and muttered quietly my name,
as claws crawled up along my arms.
No sooner had the words slipped out
had she lept up and with a laugh
called out my dear I’m free at last
and cackling ran back down the path.
I found myself turn strangely weak,
and trembling fall down to my knees,
where catching sight of my young hands,
a ice cold fear my heart did freeze.
My fair young hands had wrinkled over,
my long blond hair had turned to grey,
my once lithe legs were now immobile,
my back had hunched within a day.
I tried to move but found I couldn’t,
my limbs were rooted to the spot
a curse, once hers, had passed to me
her lonely trade became my lot.
So if you find yourself walking
along the streets of Marmaris,
take care, my pretty one, take care,
of ancient crones with a whispered kiss.
Walking through Marmaris Old Town yesterday, we did indeed stumble upon an old woman selling bits and pieces from her doorstep. Kate got caught by her sand she was very insistent! We eventually managed to escape worth no purchases of unwanted gifts made. This poem quickly emerged as a story that had to be told.
(07.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A rumble of thunder rolls across the bay.
A portent of trouble? Uncertainty ahead, and
before too long rainfall joins the fray.
Thankfully with rain coats packed we’re ready
and soon it stops, the sun returns, the grey
clouds drift away. We’re not deterred, instead
we step on out, we’re hopeful for the day
and making the most of being by the Med.
The sun emerges, shadows mark our way.
We walk past golden Atatürk the head
of modern Turkey, tall and proud, today
a statue under whose purview we tread.
A dicey looking day turned out well with a lovely walk into Marmaris along the coast.
(06.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Guarded by the hills and
Lit by moon alone, the
Midnight lagoon sits still
Under Turkish skies.
Echoing around the bay
Cicada songs resound
As, guided by the stars,
Cygnus, the swan, flies by.
The water calls to me,
Invites me to slip under
Its twilight sheets, entranced by
Mediterranean charms.
We were captivated by our first views over Marmaris bay last night.
(05.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
At security
Bring patted down, of course
Clearly suspicious
It’s always me…
(04.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Deadlines demand
A dedicated drive
A do or die
To get them done
Today I’ve driven
My head ducked down
And I’ve not died
I think they’re done
Lots to get done today before the day was out.
(03.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
Breathing slowly,
A flowing glass,
This deep dark tide,
A pulsing vein,
Captivates us
With its presence,
Hypnotizes
With its weight,
Its gravity,
Dense dignity,
That dwells within
These river banks.
The River Lee has an amazing heavy glassy quality right now that feels alive.
(02.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’
By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 