Poem 11 – The Red Kite & Me

From somewhere in the heavens I hear a mew.
I scan the sky searching for its source
I know she’s there somewhere.
I remember walking in Wales with the school
Amongst mountains and buzzards
And being taunted, teased for saying, ‘I like birds’.
I can still hear them snigger at my riposte
‘But I mean the feathered kind’.
Even Sir smiled to himself
But not so hidden that I did not see.
I blushed.

I spot her, suspended, wings outstretched
Serene in effortless anticipation
Owning her stage, demanding attention
Whilst giving us none.
She’s seen something scurrying below
Total focus on some distant spot.
Now sweeping for her prey, swift and precise
Not a plummet like a stone
Instead a vaulting ballerina
Poise belying the strength within
Leaping with pointed toe and silent grace
Who couldn’t be moved by the sight?

Oh, that I could learn to fly like her!
To be free from barb and piercing wit
Immune from worrying about what others think
To fly without thought or regret
Composed without and within
To soar above whisper and gossip
Held above those petty spears that stab and wound
To strut upon my stage with the natural ease
That comes from inner confidence
My ready pose demanding attention
But not pleading for it, or seeking it out
Sufficient in who I am.

I have always loved birds! Walking today in Lea Valley I spotted a red kite flying above. Once never seen, since their reintroduction, these elegant birds have become frequent visitors. Sitting down to try and capture their essence in verse, I found myself wondering why I always call them ‘she’, and found myself smiling at a teenage memory.

(19.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 9 – Morning View Across Lea Valley

From my seat I survey the slumbering valley
Low-lying haze lingering awaiting the sun
Still air not disturbing nor whisper ruffling
The feathers of the stationary wood pigeon
Its solitary sentry, perched a top its pole

A murmuration glides elliptically sweeping
Forerunners perhaps of the morning’s wake
Pylons bisecting, stark across the horizon
Lone hint of humanity otherwise obscured
Except bare rooftops from this bedroom view

But gradually grey infects the day’s potential
Draining greens and yellows from tree and field
Viewed across this dip through which the Lea drains
Thames-ward to empty its life-giving waters
Rain’s curtain descends, this scene comes to an end

A rare breakfast in bed this morning afforded me a view out of our bedroom window across the Lea Valley. It seemed I was not alone in a slow start, with the view equally languid other than a flock of starlings sweeping past.

(16.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 8 – An Ode to the Harvest Festival

Why celebrate Harvest in our technological age
When food is sown, grown and reaped afar
Arriving prepared, cooked and packaged in film
Just 3 minutes at 800 watts and voilà

Is this an annual grasping of a lost idyll
A pastoral dream of bygone days
An imagined ‘Good Life’ where we’re all farmers
For one day without pressures and rain

Now we’re encased in our towns it’s irrelevant
Shielded by wifi and data and 4G
When a click of a button summons crates to our doors
Full of tins, plastic trays and our tea

Perhaps now our harvest is on Instagram
In a zoom meeting or on a stage
A harvest of ideas and creation
Of electricity, fears and dreams made

But hasn’t the last year exposed the fallacy
Of systems frail that quickly become fraught
Locked down in our home we can no longer see
The shortages that we’ve bought

The queues at food banks become longer
It seems that we’re all overdrawn
Is it time for us to stop and ponder
Is it because from its source we’ve been shorn

Have we learnt that our harvest is precious
Farmers, drivers and shopkeepers too
Perhaps after all this celebration
Is a relevant thing to do

As a Fen boy, the annual Harvest Festival seemed a natural thing to do, after all I grew up surrounded by fields full of corn and farmers complaining about the forecast downturn in the weather. But now I work just outside London and this world seems far away. Every year as I lead our Harvest Festival as a minister, I find myself asking the question, what does harvest mean here, and wondering if we need to broaden its definition to include all forms of fruitful endeavour. Perhaps this last year, however, with the pandemic, panic buying and pressures on supply lines has highlighted once more just how important our food and its harvest is.

(15.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 7 – Thank you for the Harvest!

Thank you for the Harvest
For farmers who grow and reap
Sow the seed, sow the seed
Drivers to bring ingredients we need
Brum brum, brum brum
Factory workers who parcel up
Pack in the box, pack in the box
Shopkeepers who sell in their shop
Beep, beep, beep, KERCHING!
Parents who buy and cook
Sizzle, sizzle in the pan
For us to eat…..
YUM, YUM!

This morning I had the joy of leading our local schools Early Years’ Harvest Service. Harvest in our relatively urban area doesn’t have the same relevance as it did in my childhood in the Cambridgeshire Fens, surrounded by farms and fields, and so I thought I’d try and bridge the gap and make harvest a thanksgiving for our food’s journey and all involved. It was a delight having a row of six children at the front acting out each part with the whole hall joining in! Perhaps my next ‘ode’ will be a more adult reflection on the relevance of Harvest in our technological age, but for now, say it out loud, make up some actions and have fun!

(14.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 5 – Sunrise

All was dark the moment before
As if we were all that was
But somewhere a whisper awakens
Summoning workers to their chores

Stoke up the furnace ’til it’s ready to roar
Then open its door just a crack
So a halo of pink might outline the roofs
But once there, there’s no holding back

Its torrent boils over the floodgates
Pours into the heavens above
A writhing of rust, amber, vermillion
Persimmon and cadmium clash

It’s urgency rages in anger as
Blazing fiery fury erupts
It’s bright stallions charge onwards relentless
‘Gainst night’s shield wall defending its thrust

The darkness regrouping intensifies
Its blackness seems blacker than death
But nothing can hold back dawn’s progress
Triumphant its glories cascade!

As fast as the battle was opened
Dawn’s turmoil is over and done
Morning’s light is finally upon us
Its peace so violently won

Inspired by a dramatic sunrise that turned the night’s black to morning through a brief but vivid display that lit up the sky
(12.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021

Poem 2 – Out Of Reach

Through the window, the world’s a blur
Wet paint smudged, colours blended
Features distorted, faces unclear
Unknowable, seen through a glass darkly

These hints of a world unrealised
Create a painful tension
Taunting, teasing,
Near but not yet here

Finally all becomes clear
My reading glasses remained in place
When lifted from their nasal perch
The world reconfigured, made anew

I wonder though…
Do I still see through obscuring lenses
Which if similarly removed might reveal
A better world, as yet concealed

Today’s poem was inspired by a trip into the kitchen with my reading glasses on.
(08.10.21)

© Ben Quant 2021