Author: BenDQ

Poem 652 – 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 651 – 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 650 – 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 649 – 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 648 – 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 647 – 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 646 – Soul Music

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This blend of frequencies
And dash of dancing notes
Discordant clash of crochets
Resolved by soothing tones

Pianissimo to forte
Its power is unrivalled
Unearthing hope unspoken
Moving, forging lives

Watching Lord of the Rings tonight, and listening to its soundtrack, reminded me once more of the power of music.
(03.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mike Castro Demaria on Unsplash

Poem 645 – 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

Poem 644 – Canvas Dreams

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The present sound of rain thrumming transports me.
A boy, I lie inside my sleeping bag.
I am content, surrounded by the gentle
rhythm, a surrogate for my mother’s heart.
Although away, I am at home, encircled
by my father’s strong and reaching branches.
Exhausted by a day’s exertions, I close
my eyes, and smiling, drift back to the present.

It’s the time of year when the hankering to be under canvas always returns, and the sound of rain brings back happy memories.
(01.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Frederick Shaw on Unsplash