The unmown grass glistens. It’s chains of pearls,
Now celebrated by the avian choir,
Capture the morning’s fresh baptism of
Revitalising light and tender water.
Here briefly, under the sun’s hazy, gaze
Lost Paradise breaks through once more.
I drink deeply and drain my glass in prayer
And linger whilst I can before it fades.
It was a delight, this morning, to fling open the doors during my morning cup of tea.
(12.05.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
A jellied blob hangs in suspended spew.
Within, a dot becomes a growing eye,
That stares continually with many colleagues.
This froth, a stew of rich ingredients,
Together with the spark divine provides,
Impulse to life, wriggling in expansion.
A heart is born that beats the blood along,
The forming tail that from its cell propels,
The tadpole into water’s liberty.
This state is not its end, however, but,
A transitory phase. Before our eyes,
Impossibly it strains beyond, fingers,
Outstretched, extending from new reaching limbs.
New features grow as old ones fade, along,
With its truncating tail as with a croak,
The frog appears and fully free leaps skywards;
Yes, even greater than Bowie’s, this is
The miracle of metamorphosis.
Over the long Easter weekend we went looking around local ponds on the lookout for frogspawn. The journey from dot to frog never ceases to amaze me.
(22.04.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
In regal array the swan
Drifts serenely across the lake
With proud neck she stakes her claim
Outstretched wings proclaim her place
She rules all that she surveys
Usurpers swiftly subdued
In a bank holiday walk in Lea Valley we stopped to spend time with this majestic creature
(18.04.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
The heron lumbers on
This prehistoric throwback
Envelopes with its wings
Turning the world to shades
Of grey forboding shadows
When passing overhead
Aloft it struggles to
Maintain its altitude
But on the river bank
Transformed and elegant
It perches, patient, wise
With poised anticipation
Its stillness is unmatched
The clock hand paused
…until
The moment of decision
The throwing of the dart
A single precise strike
Efficient in its catch
Walking home from our Easter service a heron flew over, its struggles a clear contrast to its normal elegance.
(17.04.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Spanning the Avon, Brunel’s triumphant feat
Stands proud above the watery cleft below
Industrial muscles clenched it takes the strain
Delivering passengers safety across
Stone feet stand firm upon opposing banks
But this world in between belongs to neither
In this suspended realm we stand apart
A liminal existence ruled by none
This dreamy space is transient despite
His mighty toil in sweat and steel to hold
This is the place for wistful lovers’ strolls
Where free, hot air balloons do ride the sun
Studies have occupied my time this week, but promoted by WordPress’ wordpromt ‘bridge’, here’s an ode to one I’ve got to know over the last few years.
(12.03.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Today the sky is blue, a robin chirps
Flitting, his red breast skips into my view
And all is calm. Except it’s not. Somewhere
The tanks rumble forward. Missiles fire. Red stains.
How can this be? How can our world encompass
This contradiction? Why should I enjoy the sun
When members of my family unmet
Know only fear, uncertainty and try
To conjure up the bravery required?
To pour out verse cannot compare with what
Is asked of them, but what else can
I offer? I have no gun. Only prayer.
And so I call upon another who
Was subjected to unfair violence.
I cannot comprehend, but maybe he
Whose blood was also shed might understand?
The tanks rumble into Kyiv whilst here the sun shines.
(26.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Without our noticing, the velvet bud
Protrudes. This act of annual resurrection
From naked branch to clothed, a strip tease in
Reverse, so tantalising in modesty.
Before long, it will be scandalously dressed.
The bite of winter receding, our fruit trees are coming back to life once more.
(23.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Remember Freddie’s rhapsody
Nine classic minutes long to bring
Bombastic rock, triumphant pomp
The opera to the masses, darling
Before the storm a solo voice
With purity, soaring lament
In contrast with the bitterness
Contained within words of regret
Then crashing thunder interrupts
Violent vocals kaleidoscope
Inner turmoil, chaotic nonsense
Soundscape immense and intricate
Before Beelzebub attacks
The stargazer magnificent
Looks out beyond this racous gale
As finally the man repents
Be still cries out the axe wielder
And thus the storm is brought down low
Priorities fall into place
And whisper
…anyway the wind blows
This was going to be a poem about Storm Eunice, but slipped into something quite different.
(20.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
He came under the hedge
Dissolving then resolving
Into our winter garden
His black tipped snout came first
Emerging from the leaves
Held high in arrogance
As if to say its mine
Approaching nose held high
A russet red coat follows
Like others wearing furs
It further reinforces
His proud appearance, standing
Like Hollywood heroes
Above us mere mortals
This attitude adorned
He struts around the grass
Then job done he departs
Another property
Perhaps awaits his pleasure
A second or third home
From his portfolio
After yesterday’s black dog, another canine! Today a fox treating our garden as his caught my attention.
(08.02.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Some say these dark drained lands are empty, dull,
Vast, boring landscapes stripped of growth except
Unnatural poplar lines which interrupt
The fields proudly, a giant picket fence
The rest is flat, a murky flat, devoid
That stretches on for miles and miles and miles
Even its drains seem still and slowly flow
Found wanting under gravity’s strong trial
Depressing, black the peat which forms this ground
Can ground the unfamiliar down and bring them low
Our vision though is not confined like others
By contours, trees or other upward growth
Cast off the blinkers raise your eyes and see
Forget the pull of earth’s deep prejudice
Don’t be constrained to two dimensions only
Lift up your weary eyes find evidence
This land makes space for that which downwards fills
The mist which hangs in early morning dim
Fen blows that sharply tear across the flats
Unfettered sky set free to have its fun
The clouds can play and nighttime stars shine bright
And awesome Moon around the Lantern* glow
This land’s not bare but full and overflowing
This canvas primed for heavens’ masterstrokes
* The octagonal tower which rises from Ely Cathedral, which dominates the skyline of the Cambridgeshire Fens.
I grew up in the Cambridgeshire Fens, a vast stretch of drained peat devoted mainly to farming. It’s a stark landscape; absent are the usual features gloried in by lovers of the countryside. Once you learn how to see it, though, it has its own majestic beauty which lingers in the memory.
(29.01.22)
© Ben Quant 2022
Ode for the Day 