A late night stop at the services
having just found the M4 was closed.
‘I guess you see all sorts in here?’ I asked.
‘Yes’, replied the woman in Costa,
‘The weird and the wonderful!’ She laughed.
I left with a life saving coffee,
wondering which, if either, was me.
A long day helping my daughter decorating. Diverted on the way home.
(28.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Blake Verdoorn on Unsplash
Transient people on the
move exchanging places.
Babies over parents’
shoulders, bleary faces.
Food you’d never normally
buy, inflated prices.
Nicknack stalls and wonky
stacks of bright suitcases.
Warning by the loos
attendants of both sexes.
Children bribed with chocolate,
caffeine shots ingested.
Stopped at the M4 services on the way to Bristol today.
(27.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Gerardo Bonifacio on Unsplash
Der Teufel prances at the roadside,
His pitchfork pricking passing cyclists,
Urging them ever onwards with
His insane eyes and inane chanting.
This Devil isn’t that of legend,
Instead an ever present fan,
Accompanied by his wild inventions
In every stage of every Tour.
And as the race comes to its end
On free TV here in the UK,
I find myself in the strange position
Of realising I’ll miss Ol’ Nick.
The Tour is so much more than just a race, for example there are many characters that make its backdrop. Didi Senft is one of them, a German who stands at the roadside each stage dressed as the Devil. Only on the Tour…
(26.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I, Kuebi, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons
Mutation strikes
As genes combine
The virus is subverted
Now virulent
The strain now spreads
The world is now alerted
Working as one
Combining minds
Our efforts are concerted
Against all odds
The world is saved
Impending doom diverted
Pandemic has been a favourite boardgame for some time now, although we haven’t played for a while. Took it out for a spin tonight, and for a while it looked like we had no chance, but somehow we managed to hang on to win!
(25.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
One moment I was me
The me I’ve always been
But suddenly I find
My name is actually Lynne
I didn’t know I’d bought
A new iPhone 16
And sent it to an address
In a house I don’t live in
My phone has been delivered
To a hand that isn’t mine
I’ve not done anything wrong
But still committed a crime
Joy of joys, someone has used my email address to take out a contract in a new phone from Sky…
(24.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Daniel Romero on Unsplash
Ventoux, on whom legends are made,
Your mythical mountain slopes loom high.
Reaching beyond the trees, your lunar
Landscape, stark and steep, melds sky
And space, a place where heroes race:
Poulidour, Merckx, Pantani, Virenque,
You gifted glory to their wins.
Pogačar battled, Chris Froome ran,
Forever Simpson cycles on,
But you, Ventoux, remain the true
Pinnacle, the hero of le Tour.
I only caught up with yesterday’s stage in the Tour de France this morning, a stunning stage of full blooded racing, but as always, the lingering image will always be not the riders but the mount itself.
(23.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Lucas Gallone on Unsplash
Last minute,
final breath,
time
stands
still
until…
the roar!!!!!
Bonus poem today after the footie.
What. A. Turnaround.
(22.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Chaos Soccer Gear on Unsplash
This new fangled technology!
It’s not like back when we were young,
back then we talked to one another,
communicated face to face.
But now? They’re all distracted, dumb,
fixed stares, eyes down, lost in the page,
retreating from community;
the printing press has killed the art
of conversation. If this continues,
who knows the damage there could be!
I get worries about the impact of screen time, but at the same time, I suspect it’s all been said before…
(22.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash
Through my kitchen window I spot you pass,
a lady in red, swaggering with an easy
confidence. A stranger to my garden,
you pause to pose in stripey tiger print.
You don’t belong and yet you captivate me
with your exotic ways; my tiger moth.
It isn’t just grasshoppers in our garden this year, for the first time I recall, there’s a number of beautiful Jersey Tiger Moths fluttering around, along with a variety of butterflies.
(21.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo Jean-Pol GRANDMONT, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
It’s time to tame the lawn, to mow the meadow.
Spring’s growth is done, the flowers’ beauty faded,
and all that are left are dry and browning stalks.
I venture out, the mower pushed before me,
and suddenly what’s dead springs back to life;
a thousand hidden grasshoppers leaping skywards.
The river bursts its banks and overflows,
spilling forth, a rushing roiling flow
of boiling, bubbling, exuberance let loose.
For a moment I feel lost among the waves,
I’m all at sea, but gradually the turmoil
fades and I finally find my way again.
‘No Mow May’ slipped into ‘Let It Bloom June’ and found it’s way into July, but finally I needed to reclaim the lawn. Mowing revealed just how much life had taken up residence in the meantime.
(20.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ngan Nguyen on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 