The blaze of summer is now a fading wick.
Lawns, once overcooked like forgotten toast,
are turning green again, fragranced by rain.
Under the cover of our apple tree
spontaneous cyclamen have started to cluster,
delicate in contrast to the former sun.
Finally, the nights are drawing in.
Change is definitely in the air today.
(18.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
I find
I find myself
I find myself feeding
I find myself feeding frogs
I find myself feeding frogs with my fingers
And I fear they fink my fingers are the food!
They’re not the brightest of creatures…
(14.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Sleak and smug,
you dipped beneath
the green water
and disappeared.
A simple movement
of effortless grace
that leaves only
the slightest ripple.
I tarry waiting,
wondering where
you will appear.
You never do.
Walking along the Lee today we spotted a cormorant swimming in front of us, but not for long.
(13.09.36)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Sneha Cecil on Unsplash
An oak, or ash or pine, the basic mold,
An individual fingerprint of grain.
We see the bark, the bare exterior,
Stark trunk and fluttering leaves providing tone.
But deep beneath this personal skin there lies
A cavernous world of echoing influence,
Tracing beyond the individual tree,
It stretches out to weave through time and place.
These reaching roots slip out across the water,
Beyond tectonic plate and culture’s haste,
Like eels drawn home to their elusive Sargasso,
We all swim back and are bound to distant Adam.
Working tonight with Who Do You Think You Are in the background spawned these verses.
(09.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Standing a while beneath the trees,
I seize the moment to be still,
to feel the breeze upon my face,
to listen to the gentle rain
that patient falls and ripples through
the leaves. These trees have stood for unknown
years, not knowing the urgency
with which we flit and flirt, the passing
fears o’er which we fret and tease;
these tricky knots that agitate,
slipping between uneasy fingers.
Heading into a poetry workshop on rhyme this morning, I found myself mulling over the first two lines as I admired the trees the venue is in.
(29.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
In murky Fenland waters lurk
Fine fish safe in the rushes,
Amongst the reeds where warblers sing
And eels reign, the undisputed kings.
Here kingfishers take to vibrant wing,
To catch a fleeting flash of fin,
Blazing iridescent sting,
In unexpected ambush.
I thought I’d add a stanza somewhere before yesterday’s, to give a Fen-foreshadow or reflection of Hereward ambushing those who thought they were hidden and secure in their attempts to catch him.
(11.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vincent van Zalinge on Unsplash
The imagination of rain.
A dream that calls forth life
in torrents of shapes and sizes.
Thoughts that whisper strands
of DNA helixes,
a multitude of colours
and possibility.
Ideas externalised
in passing forms,
mirroring those made flesh.
Creativity
dispersed to root and river.
Although the clouds threatened in Hunstanton today, we only got to enjoy a brief hint of rain, no more. It was enough to cause the title of this poem to come to mind, however.
(04.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The Wash slides in and reaches over
in a gentle but relentless flow.
Its touch is tender but love is not
always thoughtful or reciprocated.
It feels as if we might be slowly
consumed, grain by single grain.
An evening stroll along the front at Hunstanton.
(03.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The river undulates,
a snake-like peristalsis
wrapping around the city.
It lets us ride upon
its rolling back, for now,
but don’t forget it isn’t
tame – at any time
the Thames may turn and bite,
a bitter serpent bite.
Enjoyed a day upon the Thames today, but on the final stretch noted how its movements seemed alive.
(01.08.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
A lazy walk along the River Lee.
Passing pink clouds dissipate and fade in
transitory trails, the evening’s tiring sun.
The air is empty, no birds announce their presence.
All is still. Responding we stroll in whispers.
A quiet walk at the end of another busy day.
(25.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Ode for the Day 