Man-made mountain range
Tectonic plates surge upwards
Gratitude ridges
Another busy day with the foodbank, not just arranging parcels, but receiving so much food from our generous Borough. I don’t think I can lift another crate today, I’m totally exhausted but so grateful.
(06.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Autumn is nowhere to be found.
It was here last year, but looking for
it now it seems to have been misplaced.
I wonder, have you seen it?
Where are the gold and red of gently
transitioning leaves upon the breeze?
The lingering chill that leaves us reaching
for our warmer clothes?
The nights are drawing in it’s true,
but the only brown is that of sun-
burnt vegetation and bare ground,
the earth’s become quite tanned.
I worry that we’ll wake one day
to find we’ve skipped a beat and all
is crispy white – or will we find
that Winter’s missing too…
An ‘autumn’ walk in Lee Valley today but it seemed nothing of the sort.
(03.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Srini Somanchi on Unsplash
A dash of dusty pink
that skims across the bushes,
clipping their crennelations
until it dips within.
Cleft black and white it flies,
a penetrating arrow
homing upon its target,
vanishing from sight.
Spotted on an overcast walk through Lee Valley this afternoon.
(03.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Doncoombez on Unsplash
Tonight the world went pink,
A blood transfusion from a dying Sun.
An evening gift of life.
Heading over to the church for an evening meeting tonight, the world was transformed by an eerie light. The group waiting by the door were all bathed with light, reminding me of my Grandad after his regular blood transfusions.
(24.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by weyfoto loh on Unsplash
As predictable as ever,
The evening commute begins,
The vaguest hint of hum.
At first a sole outrider,
Quick to leave the office,
Keen to miss the queue.
The sound of a distant thrum,
Becomes an urgent flutter,
A squabbling squall of sound,
A churning flying mass,
A kaleidoscope of grey,
Remorselessly pushing forwards,
A riotous raucous throng.
As quickly as it started
The thundering flock have gone,
Until tomorrow comes.
Just as the light started to dip, the evening murmuration flew over as the starlings returned to Lee Valley for the night, echoing the human commuters who similarly travel in and out on a daily basis.
(20.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
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
