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
A line of bird-like steps
strut confidently up the cliff-face,
towards its sandstone crest.
With toes outsplayed, they tread
through time, a shadow traced
on ancient tracks and paths.
Relentlessly, the waves
crash onwards, their roar
an echo of past voices.
Once permanent, now fleeting,
these footprints quickly fade,
the tide flows out, they’re gone.
Today we went dinosaur footprint hunting on the coastline near Albufeira. We found them, but they were already much eroded. (https://www.portugalresident.com/dinosaur-footprints-uncovered-at-albufeira-beach/)
(04.11.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Squint and you’ll see them loiter.
Walk these streets and listen.
Stop. Do not rush on by.
Amongst the tower blocks
the shades of London past
live on. Their ghosts haunt us.
Observe attentively
As first a wall appears,
And then facades and plaques.
Street names, spectres, pointing
To past possession, occupations
And entertainment of old.
Hidden beneath the pavement
The ancient rivers meander,
Living memories.
They whisper stories, as
They wash on by, depositing
Time’s flotsam in their wake.
Scavenging mudlarks scour
The Thames, whilst Wren
Designs the city skyline.
Queen Liz sits on the throne,
As Dickens walks the slums,
And Shakespeare stalks the Globe.
Today these shade still walk
Amidst harried commuters
And trigger happy tourists.
Walking home from a show at The Globe today I was struck once more at the many layers of our capital.
(07.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Tall stones
Short stones
Flat stones
Wonky stones
Old stones
New stones
Pict stones
Standing stones
Mossy stones*
Flakey stones
Funny stones
John Lennon’s stone**
Dewar stones
Stewart stones
Kilgour stones
Skull & crossed bones
*No rolling stones!
**Not the John Lennon…
Spent the day today exploring areas connected to my wife’s family history in and around Blairgowrie. This inevitably means graveyards. Lots of them.
(14.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
We find a rare side street with no restrictions
and park upon the pavement, leaving room
for pedestrians and vehicles to pass.
The tarmac’s tense beneath our feet, uptight,
and rigid with the rigours of modern life –
on view, it knows no peace and must perform.
Stepping through the curtain of a hedge
we fall into another realm, a relic
of ancient landscapes, lost and long forgotten.
No tarmac here beneath our feet, instead
bracken unfurls it’s fingers, reaches from
the softness of this springy earth to wave
its fronds towards the canopy above.
Beneath these trees we find a foreign ease –
or rediscover rest our strivings have displaced.
No regimented conifers in rows,
instead the gently scattered beech and birch
doze idly dreaming by the oak and hornbeam.
The wood is still. No breeze or foreign sound
intrudes upon its peaceful contemplation.
Only the conversation of the birds
above accompanies us. Here we are dumbed
as time unwinds, slows down and stops awhile,
a moment that transports us to the ancient
forest that straddled this fair land. If only
we could stay and stay our hands of old.
Last weekend we visited Epping Forest, somewhere I haven’t walked in since I was a child. Although the sun was out and it was unseasonably warm and bright, underfoot was boggy. The air was humid and still and our conversation was stilled.
(17.04.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Diliff, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Stationed near straight Ermine Street
your cold grip held us in your thrall.
You thought you were invincible,
standing on guard, so stern, so still,
but now you lie absorbed beneath
the nettles, the land reclaims its own.
Once you boasted of great empire,
today you sink neglected and alone.
On the 6th Day of Christmas, we went for a walk around the sculpture trail in Broxbourne Woods, a much frequented trail when our children were little. Sadly, time has had its toll. Some of the statues are missing, and others, like the Roman Soldier, have fallen.
(31.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Ode for the Day 
