The sentry stands alert upon the shed,
his puffed out silhouette proudly picked out by
the rising rays of the winter sun. Lifting
his beak, he expands his scarlet chest and shrills his fanfare. Branches straighten in response.
I often find myself watching our garden birds first thing as I look out of our kitchen windows.
(11.12.25)
I’m being watched intently.
A pair of hungry newts
seem to think I could be dinner.
Constantly turning their necks,
they keep me in their gaze,
plotting how to catch me.
Suddenly I panic,
are they the frog’s decoy?
This evening I’m working alongside the tanks that contain our son‘s pets. I’m worried that they might be hatching a plan…
(10.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
First Sunday of Advent, a late afternoon walk.
After a month of stillness, the air is thick,
filled with the raucous call of avian chatter.
The reason for their talk, the cause of all this conversation? Could it be that the birds
also anticipate the birth of Christ, God’s Son?
We walk on by, hearts lifted by their song.
The bird song this evening was noticeably louder.
(29.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash
Filling in the blnks,
Personalising the crwd,
Identfyng objects
Hgh in the gathering clouds.
Forevr seeking patterns,
Our brains instinctivly,
Fill in all the gaps, to mke
Snse of what they see.
This is our superpowr,
Our mnd’s great party trck,
Unless there’s no connecton,
And then we come unstck.
All that said, I’ve never been good at the missing vowels round in Only Connect…
(24.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash
The apple tree stands bare, its leaves
lie on the floor as if it has
undressed and dropped them there. Naked,
it shivers with us all. It’s cold.
Strangely, its apples stay suspended,
red orbs up in this grey-scale air,
a natural orrery. But these
bright lights must also dim and die,
their failing orbits causing them
to fall and sleep till summer’s rise.
Our apple tree looks odd right now, caught in between two seasons.
(20.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The numbering of my poems is all wrong, and so I’m leaving them unnumbered until I get around to correcting them…
Today I wake to seagull song.
Their urgent, tumbling cries pierce through
sleep’s bleary mist with urgency.
‘Alack, alack, alack’, they wail,
‘it is the morn, be up, be up!’
And so I stumble from my bed,
to capture on the page their call,
and show I’ve heard and heed them well.
With that they’re satisfied and still.
No need for an alarm clock today.
(15.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Peter F. Wolf on Unsplash
It says light rain, and so it is,
but can a rain that does not stop,
that pours relentlessly, a grey
insipid, haze of wet that soaks
through coats, and trouser pockets where
they drain, be ever truly light?
It is so fine it makes its way
through every pour and crevice that
present themselves, from seams to button
holes, and zips to ears and noses.
It says light rain, but I’m weighed down
my clothes and spirits drenched and heavy.
It looks like a long weekend of rain ahead… (For transparency’s sake, thankfully I’ve been in the inside looking out at the rain, imagining, so don’t feel sorry for me!)
(14.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Back home the water’s never blue but here,
here it shines with an elusive tone that conjures
up memories of childhood colouring in.
Its iridescent casual lapping stands
in stark relief to the hillside that tears upwards,
ripping apart the sky with bauxite rust.
The sea’s alive, its gentle breathing teaming
with interweaving shoals of rolling fish
that dance in perfectly synchronized waves of life.
We sit absorbed by what we see, reluctant
to say farewell, but knowing that we must,
our mood tinged with farewell blue.
Inevitably the holiday has to end. I’m sad to say goodbye to its beautiful backdrop and hope to return another day.
(11.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Finally the sun pokes past the pines.
Rising above green branches it smiles,
gracing white English limbs with warmth
as they seek refuge from winter’s reach.
Meanwhile the nuthatch nimbly flits,
descending boughs in search of food,
and hooded crows call out in squabbling
song, oblivious to our play.
Distant peaks abruptly rise, their
sharpness standing in stark relief
to the serene and tender blue that idles,
gently washing their stoney feet.
A lazy morning today sat by the pool after yesterday’s enjoyable exertions.
(08.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Breathing slowly,
A flowing glass,
This deep dark tide,
A pulsing vein,
Captivates us
With its presence,
Hypnotizes
With its weight,
Its gravity,
Dense dignity,
That dwells within
These river banks.
The River Lee has an amazing heavy glassy quality right now that feels alive.
(02.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 