Folklore & Fantasy

Poem 920 – Revenge Revealed (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Next morning the new sun revealed,
A warning to such men,
For from his gate their heads were fanned,
To scare their fellows from this land,
Or else they’d suffer at his hands,
The fate of fallen friends!

And so they fled surrounding homes,
All fearful for their lives,
But whilst by foes he was afeared,
By friend and neighbour he was cheered,
Their former enemies they jeered,
In joy at this surprise.

But whilst they celebrated loud
They also gave him counsel
The King will hear, they warned him clear,
This wanton act could cost you dear,
Prepare your swords, your shields and spears,
In case you meet this scoundrel!

Next morning Hereward’s revenge is revealed to his neighbours.
(22.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Image sourced from the Public Domain Image Archive / Internet Archive / University of Toronto Libraries

Poem 919 – The Bat

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The size and shape of a teabag,
you raise your head towards me.
You seem to sniff and hunt;
your ancient face inquires,
tracking down your prey.
A primal connection is made.
I know you’re just a pup
but something older searches
through you. Something wise.
Unbidden memories of
childhood nightmares emerge,
of figures scaling walls,
bite marks, and syphoned life.
I tell myself you’re lost
and looking for your mum,
a cute and vulnerable child.
Subconsciously my fingers
search my open neck.

Late last night we discovered a bat pup clawing its way along our downstairs corridor. Somehow it’s made its way from the loft where we have discovered we have a maternity roost somewhere tucked out of sight. It was strangely cute and vulnerable, and yet at the same time… It’s now with a local bat volunteer as we weren’t able to locate its mum.
(21.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 918 – The Fen (Ballad of the Wake)

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Dense clouds of flighty midges muster,
Somewhere a hidden croak,
A swish of grass in gentle breeze,
The honking of the passing geese,
And weeping of the willow’s leaves,
A hint of distant smoke.

A heavy heat lies on the Fen,
A dark rich smell of earth,
Amongst the reeds the water flows,
In currents, eddies, that do not show,
Hidden by irises that golden grow,
She knows not fame or worth.

Old man heron might safely stand
The eel may safely swim
But a stranger standing unawares
Lost in thought or saying prayers
May swiftly sink with no fanfare
And be dragged deep within.

Once in her arms there’s no escape,
She is a jealous wife,
She’ll hold you close in her embrace,
And pull you down without a trace,
Eternally before her face,
A watery afterlife.

I thought I’d step aside from the main narrative today and try some stanzas describing the Fen scenery. If I can, I’d like the Fen to become almost a character in the ballad, something I haven’t developed at all yet.
(20.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Wicken Lode1.JPG. (2026, April 26). Wikimedia Commons.

Poem 917 – The Ballad of the Wake: Hereward Seeks Revenge

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Inside his blood began to boil,
The blinding weight of grief,
But with great effort he kept calm,
His certainty became a balm,
In the superiority of his arms,
A victory of belief.

Deeper into the building they crept
Until they found the fire,
Around it legless lords reclined,
On laps of ladies intertwined,
Watching a jester most unkind,
Provoking his hot ire.

Upon the lyre the jester played,
Singing a song most crude.
Before him danced another man,
In mockery of our green fair land,
He jerked and jumped and wildly span,
His imitation rude.

At last the jester did complete
His dire dirge and dance,
And boldly beckoned the grim chief man
Seeking a fee from his very hand,
A treasure, something precious, grand,
From the dead lord perchance.

At this one girl did shrilly cry,
‘You are a reckless fool!
If Hereward were to return,
Your act would be his fuel!’

‘His recklessness is world renown,
In strength he has no match,
I have no doubt he’d draw his sword,
And swiftly you dispatch!’

‘That man’s a scoundrel nothing more’,
The chief man did retort,
‘His wealth he stole, in fame a fraud,
In honour he falls short!’

His words had barely left his lips
When Hereward sprung forth,
No more could he hold back his hate,
At these harsh words his teeth did grate,
This bigoted fool he did berate,
His sword gave song to his complaint,
And struck the lord upon his pate,
And cleft him to the floor.

But not content at this outcome,
The rest he did dispatch,
These drunkards could not find their feet,
All fourteen did their fate there meet,
And so revenge was wrought complete,
In death they met their match.

Hereward enacts revenge upon his brother’s killers.
(19.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Rachel on Unsplash

Poem 916 – The Ballad of the Wake: Nighttime Gates

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In fury Hereward summoned his maid,
‘Let’s visit these foul folk!’
And took his breastplate and his helm
And trusty sword, that was sharpened well
And hid them under a blackened veil
Beneath her flowing cloak.

Approaching under the cover of night
They came upon the gates
And there they found a head impaled,
A head he sadly knew too well,
It was his brother brutally nailed,
In boast about his fate.

With sorrow he sighed and brought it down,
In quiet solemnity,
And kissed it in his loving care,
With tears he combed his tangled hair,
And lifted him to the Lord in prayer,
And cursed this devilry.

Hereward decides to visit those who killed his brother.
(18.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Quan Jing on Unsplash

Poem 910 – The Ballad of the Wake: Mourning Disturbed

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In sorrow Hereward took to bed
And vainly sought to sleep,
The sad news of his brother’s death,
And anger at those who stopped his breath,
Kept him tossing at great length
With red eyes from his weeping.

But then he heard the sound of song
Come from a distant crowd,
The sound of laughter and applause,
Of raucous dancing from abroad,
And harp and viols, rowdy roars,
In celebration loud.

Who are these joyful folk, he asked,
Whose gladness brings such pain?
How dare they share such happiness,
This day so near my brother’s death,
A time for mourning and distress,
Their happiness slays again!

(12.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Image Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 909 – The Ballad of the Wake: Return to Bourne

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A few days spent in idleness,
Raging upon this news,
He finally decided to return and fight,
To see if affairs he could aright,
Assisted by his companion Lightfoot,1
To correct this abuse.

And so to Bourne he did return,
Back to his father’s manor,
And there he found much gloom and fear,
Amongst the people he held dear,
At the death of their lord’s youngest heir,
Our Hereward’s infant brother.

He’d laid upon two thugs he’d found
Dishonouring his mother,
And in disgust he took them down
To restore her honour.

But in revenge they took their swords
And swiped his head away,
And took the face of this young lord
And stuck it on display.

‘Lost Hereward, return’, they cried,
‘A mighty man they say,
He would display his great renown,
Before the night’s dark veil came down,
When man and beast in beds are found,
And all his killers slay.’

Although Hereward is far from a good man, and I’m already struggling with some of the attitudes displayed in the original writings towards ‘foreigners’, I can’t help but sense an echo of the story of the Prodigal Son in these stories, a son banished to a far land because of his lack of respect for his family, only to later come to his senses and return. But here there is no Father figure waiting for him…
(11.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by British Library on Unsplash

Poem 908 – Ballad of The Wake: Hereward in Exile

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And so the bold outlaw set forth,
At eighteen years disowned,
To slaying braggarts, beasts and bears,
And catching wedding guests unaware,
And acquiring Swallow his swift sleek mare –
So many adventures alone!

During this time he fell in love
With Turfrida of St. Omer,
When fighting for the Count of Flanders
Against Count Guines and his fighters,
And then against the French commanders,
Holding her ever closer.

But all these tales are not for today,
Perhaps another time,
Instead the tales of his return,
When he heard that his homeland burned,
Invaders ruled his hometown Bourne,
Whilst boasting of their crimes.

Returning to The Ballad of the Wake, these verse attempt to condense his time in exile.
(10.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by British Library on Unsplash

Poem 906 – The Origins of Hereward

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Here is the tale of Hereward,
The one they call The Wake,
The warrior from the deepest Fen,
Who gathered around him mighty men,
To keep at bay that William,
For precious England’s sake.

Amongst his childhood friends and peers
Young Hereward caused offence,
Both tough in work and rough in play,
He grew in boldness day by day,
Determined to win in every way,
Succeeding at others’ expense.

But through this strife he grew in strength,
In arm and leg and chest,
With speed, agility, and thought,
In nimbleness he was never caught,
Overcoming all he fought,
Proving he was the best.

His Father? Leofric of Bourne,
The nephew of Earl Ralph.
His mother? Eadgyth,1 great-niece of
The famed Duke Oslac of the north.
From this fair family he set forth,
One born to rank and wealth.

In stature, sturdy and most stout
And handsome in his features.
With striking eyes and long blond hair,
He strode the land without a care,
A burly man built like a bear,
Most striking of God’s creatures.

After a while his constant quarrels,
With neighbours, friends and strangers,
Kept his parents from their sleep,
As they had to wield their swords to keep,
At bay the crowds of those he’d beat,
Now baying for blood enraged.

Inevitably this hell-raiser,
Soon fought against his father,
And wore him down with arguments
And a rebellious streak that wouldn’t relent.
So long this feud was allowed to ferment
That his Father snapped, his clothes he rent,
And with the blessings of good King Ed,2
Banished his son to the continent,
To shock the prodigal was his intent,
Into rediscovering honour.

So Hereward stormed away in anger
As heat burned in his head,
No kind words to his kin addressed,
No sin he thought should he confess,
He left them in their sore distress,
As onwards he did tread.

A few more stanzas of my Hereward ballad, edited together with those from earlier this week
(08.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Image John Cassell, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

  1. Pronounced Edith ↩︎
  2. King Edgar ↩︎