A rotting ruin, the old pub stood abandoned,
the juke box quiet, regulars forgotten,
its skeleton a ghostly shell left stranded.
As weeds burst through clay tiles and chimney pots
it seemed as if this plot had no more planned
than this, but mother nature had allotted
her resources, and soon this dead corpse breathed
again with saplings, lake and thriving reeds.
The site of a former local pub is being transformed as nature has its way.
(09.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The rain comes down as soon as I
step from the car into its time.
The crying of a peacock lends
an eerie chill, disturbs my spine.
Forgotten gardens, ruined mansions,
midnight strolls and walking statues.
This shell reminds me of the dramas
that wrote the landscape of my childhood.
I half expect to see the ghost
of Queen Elizabeth drift by
the corner of my eye, as I,
survey the walls and roofless ceilings.
We walk in hushed, respectful tones
to navigate its sandstone bones,
and roam within its fading grandeur,
and marvel at this skeletal wonder.
Today we called in on Kirby Hall on the way to visit my parents. An amazing building.
(28.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I’m glad it did not rain on their parade,
and these old men and women could keep dry,
but somehow it seemed appropriate that the scenes
turned black and white under the gloomy clouds.
Although flags were flying and plastic hats
were worn adorned in red, white and blue,
this isn’t a day for celebration, rather
a day for quiet sombre recollection.
‘We must never forget’, a veteran said,
but as he did, the breaking news told us
of growing conscription in the Middle East
ahead of expanded operations in Gaza…
In the Ukraine the drones still buzz about,
Sudan’s still torn to bits by civil war,
and tariff tit-for-tats are lobbed like bombs.
I fear this is no time for flapping flags.
Maybe, it’s time to swap out national pride
for seeking peace. A holy man once said,
‘Love your enemies.’ If only we had
the imagination that this task requires.
Today marks the 80th Anniversary of VE Day.
(05.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mark Leishman on Unsplash
Sharply formed and
Immaculately cut,
In neat straight lines
Of grass and roses.
Fragrant scents and
Pastiche pieces,
White marble figures
By formal arches.
Here nature’s tamed,
Close manicured,
Ghosts promenade,
As stone lions roar.
We spent today’s sunny morning strolling around the grounds of Wrest Park.
(03.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nigel Cox CC-BY SA 2.0
On April the twenty third I feel I ought,
To write a sonnet honouring the Bard.
In Fifteen Sixty Four our Will was born,
Living ’til Sixteen Sixteen when he died.
Between these only fifty two short years,
In which to write his dazzling magnus opus,
His folio of world renowned great verse,
Still uttered by the Thames in his wooden O.
Creator of so many memorable lines,
And author of now oft used turns of phrase,
The master of the magical use of rhyme,
With which he artfully captured our human ways.
So why’s today named after some brave knight
And not this bright composer of such delight!
A sonnet on St. George’s Day.
(23.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Wandering through the city streets we noted
the men of war (all men) posturing upon the
capital’s many pillars and pedestals.
Testosterone fuelled, they thrust out chests and chins
and clambered upwards, competing to be highest.
Later, under Trafalgar’s column, we witnessed
politicians and pop stars gather in protest at
Putin’s bare-chested invasion of Ukraine.
Three years on from the invasion of Ukraine.
(23.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Borja Verbena on Unsplash
Beneath these streets another London lurks
that secretly exerts its influence.
This realm is not inhabited by fae,
some Neverwhere or Long London, but born
of flesh and blood, the footsteps walked before us.
Laid in a myriad of layers, its culture
manipulates our lives, its stretching fingers,
reaching through our paths, our clothes and speech,
are inescapable, a net ensnaring
this famed landscape both for its good or ill.
I’m currently reading Alan Moore’s ‘The Great When’ – what a terrific book it is, in the great tradition of urban fantasy like Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ and Clarke’s ‘Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell’. Strip away the fantasy, and I suspect these readings aren’t so far from reality.
(22.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Davies on Unsplash
Standing stark and strong,
the weight of generations
tugging us through time.
Historic earth, a rod,
grounding our feet in place;
eternity in stone.
A silhouette, cold white,
engraved in fleeting lives,
eroded, lichen clad.
A throbbing weight, it’s heart-
beating our ears with gravity,
not breathing yet alive.
Tonight’s TV drama (Vera) featured three standing stones, reminding me of trips to Avebury and other ancient monuments, and the feelings associated with them.
(22.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The perfect vision
Arching delight
Curving crisply
Casting the light
Reaching over
Reeds and blue water
Alas this bridge
Is an imposter
To celebrate half term, we took some time today to visit Kenwood House and grounds. Over the lake reaches this beautiful bridge which can be seen from the house. Close inspection, however, reveals it is a sham – it is a two dimensional prop!
(17.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
‘The Norman horde must be holding us up ahead,’
I laughed out loud, as we languished in the lane.
And so imagine my surprise when, making
it around the roundabout, we ran into
a fearsome figure fighting on a horse!
Before him fought on foot a Saxon armed
with axe and anger, armour dulled by blows
so skillfully cut by William’s swiping sword.
Thus trapped, the tortured troops of Harold stand,
eternally caught in conflict with the Conqueror.
Driving to a conference today, we were held up in the Sussex town of Battle…
(11.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 
