Remember Moses met God in a burning bush?
Today I moved two blueberry bushes in
the rain, not really the same, and yet within
the falling drops I heard his jovial patter.
His words were splashing colour everywhere,
flowing down my collar and into my socks,
a rhythmic splatter announcing, ‘LET THERE BE!’
Inspired by collecting blueberry bushes in the rain from a local allotment.
(05.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mario Mendez on Unsplash
‘Ne’er cast a clout
’till May is out’
… but what’s that sound?
the rain pouring down!
But fortunately, I had my a new mac with me…
(03.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Alex Dukhanov on Unsplash
I saw a feathered ghost fly past tonight,
White and graceful wings flowing fast tonight.
Fixing a fleeting mouse with radar stare,
Big piercing eyes left us aghast tonight.
Swooping soundlessly between darkened boughs,
Its cold elegance unsurpassed tonight.
With outstretched talons and determined claws,
It plunged, grasping the scared mouse fast tonight.
Hard pressed and crushed, with a shrill, tearful cry,
The desperate mouse breathed its last tonight.
Two foes, one fearful and the other feared,
What a fatal, final contrast tonight!
I thought I’d have a go at a ghazal: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/education/glossary/ghazal. Here’s my first stab, a bit clumsy, but not too bad for a first go. Tricky one to master!
(01.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Bob Brewer on Unsplash
Slowly we alight the sudden hill,
peeling back time as we ascend,
and as we do the Red Arrows fly by,
roaring past in perfect V formation.
They feel incongruous.
Timeless, above us all the cathedral reaches,
Imposing in its majesty it flies,
sundering our sense of time and scale.
Looking up, I lose identity,
and teetter on the edge of consciousness.
But even this transcendent edifice
is left behind. Upon its parapets
a peregrine perches, impervious to our whims.
Stretching, it commands the attention of
the distant minions gathering down beneath.
Meanwhile, one like a son of man ascends.
Upon the clouds he climbs to heaven’s throne,
and there, upon his head, the Ancient One
bestows an eternal crown and with it all glory
majesty and power for evermore!
We spent Ascension Day in Lincoln, where much to my delight we spotted peregrine falcons perched upon the cathedral. A truly awesome sight.
(29.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Rory Tucker on Unsplash
It’s nine o’clock and so
Creation’s curtains close,
drawn by a flock of starlings
heading home to bed.
Every night, as regular as clockwork!
(22.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
Totally crashed out
and basking in the sun,
Reynard relaxes beneath
its golden smile and grins;
his snout become a mirror.
A fox has taken to lying at the end of our garden. Yesterday he was so relaxed I was worried for a moment until his snout twitched.
(21.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dušan veverkolog on Unsplash
A lawn of lions,
Their golden manes
Bobbing brightly
Under the Sun.
NoMowMay has produced a beautiful display of dandelions.
(18.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nikša Leko on Unsplash
Trapped behind the bricks,
I’m caught amongst the ashes,
left flapping in the dark.
This fall was not intended,
I but I couldn’t stop myself,
from descending in the dark.
Unable to escape, with
no space to find my way,
or spread my wings and fly,
I’m left in desperation,
increasingly bewildered,
blinded, lost, exhausted.
Below a light appears,
its grasping fingers reach,
in beckoning invitation.
I panic, torn between
the comfort of the known,
and fearful possibility.
This morning started with a futile attempt to rescue a starling from our chimney.
(13.05.25)
Plump, olive green and shiny under the lamp
the frog sits in its tank and smiles a vacant
smile at me. For now it sleeps the sleep of
the idle, all its needs will be provided.
Occasionally it shuffles, rearranges
limbs, then settles down once more exhausted.
I’m not convinced a prince would pucker lips,
but if he did, what metamorphosis might
occur? Please welcome our new prince the toad!
I’m busy working on an entry to a local poetry competition, so here’s a quick one based on our pet White’s Tree Frog.
(11.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Is this river alive?
I think so. She flows
along our valley birthing
life where e’er she goes:
the hazy clouds of flies
that flock this time of year,
the clacking coots upon
comical towering nests,
the dragonflies that briefly dart
by deer that stalk its edges.
Small fish flick within her
currents, whilst willows lean
admiring her fine looks.
Some days she dresses down
in sombre darkened brown,
in winter black and white,
but today the sun is out,
it’s time for brighter colours.
She is our giving mother
nurturing our valley
with her languid love
and flowing tender tears,
and whilst she does she sings
her lapping melody.
This river is alive,
of that there is no doubt.
I’ve been listening to the BBC’s adaptation of Robert MacFarlane’s ‘Is A River Alive?’ Living next to the River Lee (or Lea), I find it easy to grasp what he means.
(10.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 