Natural World

Poem 706 – An Apple Tree in Winter

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The apple tree stands bare, its leaves
lie on the floor as if it has
undressed and dropped them there. Naked,
it shivers with us all. It’s cold.
Strangely, its apples stay suspended,
red orbs up in this grey-scale air,
a natural orrery. But these
bright lights must also dim and die,
their failing orbits causing them
to fall and sleep till summer’s rise.

Our apple tree looks odd right now, caught in between two seasons.
(20.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

The numbering of my poems is all wrong, and so I’m leaving them unnumbered until I get around to correcting them…

Poem 701 – Coastal Alarm

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Today I wake to seagull song.
Their urgent, tumbling cries pierce through
sleep’s bleary mist with urgency.
‘Alack, alack, alack’, they wail,
‘it is the morn, be up, be up!’
And so I stumble from my bed,
to capture on the page their call,
and show I’ve heard and heed them well.
With that they’re satisfied and still.

No need for an alarm clock today.
(15.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Peter F. Wolf on Unsplash

Poem 700 – Light Rain Predicted

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It says light rain, and so it is,
but can a rain that does not stop,
that pours relentlessly, a grey
insipid, haze of wet that soaks
through coats, and trouser pockets where
they drain, be ever truly light?
It is so fine it makes its way
through every pour and crevice that
present themselves, from seams to button
holes, and zips to ears and noses.
It says light rain, but I’m weighed down
my clothes and spirits drenched and heavy.

It looks like a long weekend of rain ahead… (For transparency’s sake, thankfully I’ve been in the inside looking out at the rain, imagining, so don’t feel sorry for me!)
(14.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 697 – Marmaris Blue

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Back home the water’s never blue but here,
here it shines with an elusive tone that conjures
up memories of childhood colouring in.
Its iridescent casual lapping stands
in stark relief to the hillside that tears upwards,
ripping apart the sky with bauxite rust.
The sea’s alive, its gentle breathing teaming
with interweaving shoals of rolling fish
that dance in perfectly synchronized waves of life.
We sit absorbed by what we see, reluctant
to say farewell, but knowing that we must,
our mood tinged with farewell blue.

Inevitably the holiday has to end. I’m sad to say goodbye to its beautiful backdrop and hope to return another day.
(11.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 694 – Parallel Lives

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Finally the sun pokes past the pines.
Rising above green branches it smiles,
gracing white English limbs with warmth
as they seek refuge from winter’s reach.

Meanwhile the nuthatch nimbly flits,
descending boughs in search of food,
and hooded crows call out in squabbling
song, oblivious to our play.

Distant peaks abruptly rise, their
sharpness standing in stark relief
to the serene and tender blue that idles,
gently washing their stoney feet.

A lazy morning today sat by the pool after yesterday’s enjoyable exertions.
(08.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 688 – The River

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Breathing slowly,
A flowing glass,
This deep dark tide,
A pulsing vein,
Captivates us
With its presence,
Hypnotizes
With its weight,
Its gravity,
Dense dignity,
That dwells within
These river banks.

The River Lee has an amazing heavy glassy quality right now that feels alive.
(02.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 687 – Summer’s Passing

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The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’

By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 686 – The Vigil

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Suspended, still and silent,
the spider hung all evening,
a single silken thread
secured him to the spot.

Patiently he waited, watching
with alien eyes, all eight,
hopefully focused upon us,
wondering when to leap.

But as the evening ended
the arachnid remained alert,
where, we retired praying,
he would remain all night.

I’ve spent the second night ironing, aware that all evening, someone hung behind me.
(31.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 680 – Season’s End

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The crest of winter creeps across the land.
Soon will come the crenellations of white
that edge the fringes of the frozen fields
andd lace the country lanes with a glistening sheen.

We walk. Fingers unused to the cold welcoming
the warmth afforded by coat pockets when thrust
into their hidden depths. Despite the carpet
of autumnal leaves, the light’s subdued, dialled down.

Our conversation hushed, we huddle close
contemplating the coming chill. Even
the birds are so, as summer songs are silenced.
The world draws in and waits for winter’s veil.

We shared an enjoyable walk this morning. The sun is out today, but the signs are there that the seasons are turning.
(25.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sue Winston on Unsplash