Natural World

Poem 384 – Two Worlds

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This lazy January morning,
we rise to the golden glow
of the winter sun, as it settles
on curtained window panes.

Descending, we duck down
beneath the glowing gaze,
and enter a monochrome realm,
a kingdom of black and white.

Beyond the kitchen’s heat,
the world divides between
two lawns of white and green
demarked by shadow fall.

Upon the glass retreat
ancient fingers of intricate
silver, etched in frosted
detail, delicate yet harsh.

It is the time of year when the sun can shine but has no heat. The last few days have been drab, overcast and misty keeping some warmth, but today these cleared…
(03.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash

Poem 381 – The Sparrowhawk

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We suddenly became aware of
his lonesome presence not far away.
Perfectly still, he perched mere metres
from where we sat behind the glass.
He gazed disdainfully at us through
his alien eyes, dismissing us,
before, with a casual flick of his feathers,
launching himself from the plum tree branch.

We had an unexpected visitor in the garden the other day.
(20.12.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo Muséum de Toulouse, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 376 – Darragh Joins Strictly

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In bed, Storm Darragh wakes me
Blustering down the chimney
Rattling window panes, and
Disturbing creaky doors

I picture leaves outside,
Spinning, like tossed salad,
Awakened with a dousing
Of nocturnally sprinkled rain.

Is that the sound of waltzing
Wheelie bins joining plastic
Bags in promenading
Gracefully around the lawn?

I worry walls might join
The dance, with flirting fence
panels. rockin’ and rollin’
To the rhythm with wild abandon

And as the show crescendos,
Car sirens sound in rapture
And trees applaud, their branches
Bowed in adoration.

It was a noisy night last night! Thankfully, all was ok when the morning came.
(06.12.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Khamkéo on Unsplash

Poem 369 – The Advent Wreath

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The hedge was out of control,
its branches lined their vicious
spikes beyond the fence,
like medieval pikemen
stood ready for the charge.

There was but one reply!
I grabbed my shears and set
about their ranks with wild
abandon, sending limbs
flying in every direction.

Resisting, they made their mark:
my blood was shed, but alas,
for them, victory was mine
as fast they fell, and soon
lay scattered on the ground.

But this was not the end.
In remembrance I gathered the fallen,
twisting them into a wreath
and hanging them on the door;
a holly crown for the Christ.

I spent this morning pruning our hedgerow, including the holly bush. I’ve often pondered making my own wreath, and so today I gave it a go, at least the holly framework. Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll add a splash of colour to go with it.
(30.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Poem 367 – A Forest in Miniature

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Crouch down, zoom in, and you’ll find a quantum forest,
a reaching canopy in miniature splendour that
rises in vast and alien complexity.

This leafy spread isn’t formed of trees but lichen,
the mystical two in one and one in two,
fungus and algae cryptically combined.

Hidden in plain sight, these ecological
marvels stretch out, decorating graves
and bridges; nature the original street artist.

I noticed recently that, while I wasn’t looking, lichen has spread out its swathes across the railway footbridge at the foot of our road. It’s a weird and mysterious organism, a combination of algae and fungus, but what is the nature of their relationship and are they / is it one organism or two?
(28.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 364 – The Atlantic

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The black rises and falls, like living onyx.
Immense and thick, it breaths and broods, an alien
being in whom we sit so small and vulnerable.
We steer, propelling ourselves forward, but know
our motions are inexorably tied to its.
One idle flick, one twitch, would see us thrown
and sink into its oblivious arms and folds;
so vast this creature knows nor loves us not.

Going out on our small boat to seek dolphin in the Atlantic was a humbling encounter.
(25.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Thomas Vimare on Unsplash

Poem 355 – The Cusp

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Like learning to ride
With stabilisers removed,
Our world is wobbling,
Caught between losing control
And new equilibrium.

The days are shorter, leaves have fallen, and the temperature is dropping as we transition from autumn to winter. This is not the only change in the air.
(This poem is an attempt at a tanka, a Japanese form, like a haiku, but with lines of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllables.)
(16.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Liana S on Unsplash

Poem 353 – The Tree

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This heart,
With reaching veins
That stretch out heavenward,
And arteries penetrating deep,
Births life.

A short one tonight. I discovered the cinquain poem form this morning, that has a pattern of 1, 2, 3, 4, 1 stresses in each line in turn, and thought I’d have a go. The shape suggested the content.
(14.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Brandon Green on Unsplash

Poem 347 – Dolphin Hunting

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This brooding landscape’s constantly on the move,
a bewitching vista, coyly teasing us with
fleeting hints and passing apparitions.
A shape catches in the corner of the eye.
You turn only to find it’s gone and all
that’s left’s a question, hanging in its place.
Hoping that amongst these surging peaks they
may be found, we press on through the waves.
What’s that? You spin, a flash of grey lifted
above the spray, but no, it’s just a fish.
This false hope dashed, gone with the darkened waves,
and so time ebbs away and with it passes hope.
Resigning ourselves to disappointment, we pretend
the caves were enough. Too loud we cry, ‘All’s good!’
Bracing ourselves with bravado we turn for home,
and then, and only then, the waves are broken,
as up towards the cheering sky it soars!

At the third time of asking, our boat ‘sailed’ today. Two years ago we took this excursion along the coastal caves and then out to hunt for dolphins. We enjoyed it so much we had to take the family this time around. Dolphins? No joy, but we were finished to see leading tuna as we turned for home.
(08.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 343 – Ancient Echoes

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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