Natural World

Poem 602 – The (Un)Common Swift

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Eternally on the wing, the swift circles
and weaves in dreams of constant summer blue.
Here, trapped in two dimensions, I can’t conceive
how it must feel to never touch the ground;
to eat, to sleep, to meet, conceive and sing
all lacking sense of permanence below.
It sounds so liberating yet exhausting,
expansive yet without the roots called home.
Common? No, she is extraordinary.

The last couple of days the air had been filled with the sight and sound of swifts on the wing. Amazing birds (see https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/swift)
(08.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 596 – The Robin

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He stood so still, I almost didn’t spot him.
Once, his coat was like the one your mother
bought you, saying you’ll grow into it;
he has. Its scruffy now, its tatty edges stretching, fresh orange feathers finally poking through.
Whilst manhood beckons, he has so much to learn.
He eyes me quizzically, wondering if I can
be trusted, if I am a threat. I’m not.
Decision made we stand there eye to eye,
two fellow creatures looking soul to soul.
I’m held until he breaks his gaze, and twitching,
skips into the shade of a nearby waiting bush.

We have a juvenile robin in our garden at the moment, with whom I exchanged a precious moment this morning.
(02.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 595 – Canvas Dreams

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The present sound of rain thrumming transports me.
A boy, I lie inside my sleeping bag.
I am content, surrounded by the gentle
rhythm, a surrogate for my mother’s heart.
Although away, I am at home, encircled
by my father’s strong and reaching branches.
Exhausted by a day’s exertions, I close
my eyes, and smiling, drift back to the present.

It’s the time of year when the hankering to be under canvas always returns, and the sound of rain brings back happy memories.
(01.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Frederick Shaw on Unsplash

Poem 583 – Seduced

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Through my kitchen window I spot you pass,
a lady in red, swaggering with an easy
confidence. A stranger to my garden,
you pause to pose in stripey tiger print.
You don’t belong and yet you captivate me
with your exotic ways; my tiger moth.

It isn’t just grasshoppers in our garden this year, for the first time I recall, there’s a number of beautiful Jersey Tiger Moths fluttering around, along with a variety of butterflies.
(21.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo Jean-Pol GRANDMONT, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Poem 582 – Life Abounds!

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It’s time to tame the lawn, to mow the meadow.
Spring’s growth is done, the flowers’ beauty faded,
and all that are left are dry and browning stalks.

I venture out, the mower pushed before me,
and suddenly what’s dead springs back to life;
a thousand hidden grasshoppers leaping skywards.

The river bursts its banks and overflows,
spilling forth, a rushing roiling flow
of boiling, bubbling, exuberance let loose.

For a moment I feel lost among the waves,
I’m all at sea, but gradually the turmoil
fades and I finally find my way again.

‘No Mow May’ slipped into ‘Let It Bloom June’ and found it’s way into July, but finally I needed to reclaim the lawn. Mowing revealed just how much life had taken up residence in the meantime.
(20.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ngan Nguyen on Unsplash

Poem 581 – New River in the Rain

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The trees’ reflections are stirred,
obscured by whirling eddies
that form along the bank.
Concentric circles overlap,
and dancing dissipate.
Delineation blurs as
the air moistens, merging
with the flow below.
Darting swifts live up to
their names catching disturbed
insects on the wing.
Suspended spiders’ webs,
glistening silver-plated,
adorn the grassy fence,
whilst blackberries, freshly washed,
hang low from laden branches,
dressed in mourning tones.
A cormorant smiles and dives,
oblivious to the tears.

It’s down to rain all day, but regardless, we snatched a walk between deluges along the New River, built to feed water to London to the south. My new raincoat kept the rain out.
(19.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jackie Best on Unsplash

Poem 563 – Heatwave

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The still summer sky is blue, clear blue,
The blue you imagine water to be as a child.
High above, a kite hangs. It’s effortless.
Swifts circle, our annual visitors making themselves at home.
Stupefied, nothing is moving here below.
We slowly melt upon our chairs and moan,
‘the heat!’ …Oh to dive into the blue.

Waiting for the heatwave to break and sleep to return.
(01.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Aron Schmitz on Unsplash

Poem 561 – Haunted

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Under this raging sun the ragwort blooms
and ancient English oaks stand broad and tall.
On the wing, strange, alien-blue, dragonflies zoom,
as vivid caterpillars stretch and crawl.
Meanwhile, a song thrush finds its finest hour
in glorious song, a masterclass of splendour.
Its beauty’s only matched by bright wildflowers;
as this dream becomes a glimpse through heaven’s door.
We stroll along the gayly dressed bright field,
whilst skylarks burble in the meadow grass.
Such visions jar with those further afield,
reminders of the life of days gone past.
Too few, alas, these ghosts of what has gone –
our lives are haunted by their lives undone.

I thought I’d try and rework yesterday’s poem into a sonnet, its content seeming to call for a more classic form.
(29.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 560 – Today We Walk With Ghosts

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Under this summer sun wild flowers bloom.
And ancient trees at ease stand broad and tall.
Caterpillars drop like hazel catkins
Whilst skylarks burble in the meadow grass.
Somewhere, a song thrush finds its finest hour,
A masterclass in glorious song and splendour.
These fields are haunted by the life we’ve lost;
Too few, alas, these ghosts of what has gone.

Today we completed loop four of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk, passing through some magnificent fields that have been left to nature. Bursting with life they lifted my spirits, only for the barrenness beyond them to be made starkly clear.
(28.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025