Can I be bothered?
The weekend was long
and I’m feeling weary.
But above the swifts
are wheeling still
and I’m put to shame.
Perhaps I ought
to rouse myself…
Maybe tomorrow.
Yesterday I had a five hour drive back from near Exeter and today is hot. You almost got a haiku…
(06.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Celestial showoffs,
the swifts swerve in
ecstatic rapture
and sweeping joy.
In unison
they tumble, turning
in the throes of triumph
and shrilling hope.
(05.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The furious Sun has shone with anger,
With rasping rays that raked our days,
Set rooms afire throughout the night,
Burning the world, no sign of grace.
We’ve wished it gone and prayed for rain,
But as it finally edged away,
It shed its fury and shone with joy,
Its last hurrah guilt edged the day.
As the heat finally broke this afternoon we took a walk and were treated to this stunning sun down view.
(27.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Beware the marsh the black crow cries,
Beware the treacherous mire,
Beware deceptive flickering lights,
That tempt and tease us from our stride,
The cunning of these devious guides,
That wickedly conspire.
Beware the evil lantern men,
The haunters of the fen,
That flicker with the barking dog,
That howls within the cloaking fog,
The phantom hound, the grim Black Shuck,
Enticing us to our death.
A bit brain dulled by the heat and the days events, so here’s a couple of verses that may or may not feature in the Ballad of the Wake.
(26.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Fabio Verhorstert on Unsplash
the rising heat pervades and saturates,
discombobulating, it smears and saps
our life, we sit and stare and take our turn
uttering, ‘It’s hot, too hot,’ our words become
confused and stumble, jumble, skip a line
and fall in greasy puddles around our shoes,
and start to slide apart, it is too much,
and slide apart, proximity adverse
The hottest day of yet another heatwave. It’s all too much…
(24.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash
These words have melted
All the stanzas are dripping
Poetic puddles
My brain has stopped working and the footie’s on the tele. Time for a haiku!
(23.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
The size and shape of a teabag,
you raise your head towards me.
You seem to sniff and hunt;
your ancient face inquires,
tracking down your prey.
A primal connection is made.
I know you’re just a pup
but something older searches
through you. Something wise.
Unbidden memories of
childhood nightmares emerge,
of figures scaling walls,
bite marks, and syphoned life.
I tell myself you’re lost
and looking for your mum,
a cute and vulnerable child.
Subconsciously my fingers
search my open neck.
Late last night we discovered a bat pup clawing its way along our downstairs corridor. Somehow it’s made its way from the loft where we have discovered we have a maternity roost somewhere tucked out of sight. It was strangely cute and vulnerable, and yet at the same time… It’s now with a local bat volunteer as we weren’t able to locate its mum.
(21.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Dense clouds of flighty midges muster,
Somewhere a hidden croak,
A swish of grass in gentle breeze,
The honking of the passing geese,
And weeping of the willow’s leaves,
A hint of distant smoke.
A heavy heat lies on the Fen,
A dark rich smell of earth,
Amongst the reeds the water flows,
In currents, eddies, that do not show,
Hidden by irises that golden grow,
She knows not fame or worth.
Old man heron might safely stand
The eel may safely swim
But a stranger standing unawares
Lost in thought or saying prayers
May swiftly sink with no fanfare
And be dragged deep within.
Once in her arms there’s no escape,
She is a jealous wife,
She’ll hold you close in her embrace,
And pull you down without a trace,
Eternally before her face,
A watery afterlife.
I thought I’d step aside from the main narrative today and try some stanzas describing the Fen scenery. If I can, I’d like the Fen to become almost a character in the ballad, something I haven’t developed at all yet.
(20.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Wicken Lode1.JPG. (2026, April 26). Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday afternoon and the gardening’s done.
Satisfied, I stop, sit back and observe.
Gleeful goldfinches chitter with delight,
their happy chatter calls to my innocence.
I smile a childlike smile. Meanwhile, a nearby
robin perches, posing like a head-
cocked model caught in curiosity.
She stares, I stare back; we are connected.
Blue tits flit incessantly from one thing
to the next; their frantic avian minds
unable to stand still. I watch them fly
delighted that I, however, managed to do so.
The poem says it all really, a lovely moment at the end of an afternoon’s work.
(14.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jim Summerson on Unsplash
The sky unfurls.
Deep blue rolls out
To reach right to
The horizon’s edge.
Emerald hedgerows
Stand to attention,
Guardsmen alert
And on parade.
The path’s an ochre
Carpet beneath
Our feet. We tread
As honoured guests.
Above the birds
Fly in formation.
Their song trails colourfully
In their wake.
The King’s official birthday was marked by the ‘trooping of the colours’ today. A morning walk made me feel just as privileged.
(13.06.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Winfried Scholz on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
