This year I got in early
and started ‘No Mow May’ in
January. Now the grass
is tufty and embedded
with dandelion splashes.
It might not win awards
or have those tasteful stripes,
but the birds all seem to love it
and that’s a prize to me.
As spring erupts, our garden’s come to life. First thing the lawn’s awash with birds, pecking for food and heating material.
(12.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
‘What’s that?’ she asked abruptly,
pointing to the smallest
bird perched in the tree
beside us.
I almost missed it listening
to the sound resounding
all around me, loud
and laughing.
This Irish lilt, melodic
song that filled the air,
composers answering
each other.
But then I saw it fill its
chest, open its beak,
and sing and sing and sing,
so merry!
This little fellow was the
author of the song
that brought such joy, we can’t
stop smiling!
This afternoon we took a post lunch walk around Lea Valley and saw a chiffchaff in the tree beside us. Their loud and laughing song always makes me smile. I was surprised to discover that the source of this big sound is such a small bird! I thought I’d try and capture something of its bouncy song in the form of this poem. If you don’t know what they sound like listen to this: https://youtu.be/we0bA5POyzU?si=etmckMGRQWKkPgjL
(10.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andrey Strizhkov on Unsplash
Each dusk they fly in flocks
Across the inky sky
A gathering murmuration
And as the starlings gather
Bats begin to flit
And weave their frantic patterns
This transit brings to mind
Another distant view
The passing of the sun
We gathered in your garden
Equipped with tinted glasses
To watch the solar eclipse
Back then, as now, the birds
Flew across the horizon
Going home to roost
But soon it’s time for you
To take to wing and pass
Go heading home to roost
Fly safely, my old friend,
Through this liminal place
And soon the sun will shine
The starlings are massing as night falls.
(08.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Haerer on Unsplash
The foal sleeps;
its newborn mind
a blank canvas
that only knows
this present peace.
Experienced,
love stands on guard;
the mother finds her
peace in the breathing
of its child.
Another take on yesterday’s scene/poem
(07.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Fabien Maurin on Unsplash
The newborn sunshine warms the sleeping foal.
With winter’s labour done, its early rays
accompany the horse’s early breaths.
Lying content and totally at peace
its chest rises and falls, filling with life
under its constant mother’s patient gaze.
This afternoon we took a walk across the River Lea, and stumbled across the site of a new born foal sleeping under the early spring sun.
(06.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
We sit outside, enjoying Spring’s fresh sun,
sharing a cup of tea and conversation.
The heavens’ freshness is invigorating,
shining light into wearied Winter limbs.
We aren’t the only ones awakened by
the afternoon’s blue opportunity;
the sky swells with ranks of choristers,
alert, their chests puffed out with jubilant song.
Performing bass, the racket of the rooks erupts,
joining the tree-born tenor pigeons’ coos.
Insistent great tits drill their alto beats, as
greenfinch glissandos trill in soprano splendour.
At the finale’s final flourish we file
out of the garden, aware that we’ve been treated
by a most marvellous rendition of this
anarchic avian anthem. We applaud.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat outside with my parents, ensuring the weather and the glorious birdsong.
(25.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Svetozar Cenisev on Unsplash
All was quiet the first time we walked here –
except for the birds. The birds were singing loudly,
so loudly in fact that their melody hurt our ears.
Later, we learnt they were actually quieter than before, only now, devoid of cars and people,
their melody could actually be heard.
We walked this way again, today, without
the fear of meeting others. This time it was
the cars that shouted, roaring as they passed,
angry, desperate to be moving on.
I could see the birds were screaming but
their tortured song was muffled, faint and lost.
Five years on from the start of the pandemic, Spring is here, and with it the birds’ melodious song – if you can hear it, that is.
(22.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Tyler Jamieson Moulton on Unsplash
Outside the light began to fade,
as inside I was making tea.
Filling the kettle, I was arrested,
by the melodious sound of a lone
blackbird saying its prayers before
its bed. I stood in awe, enraptured,
moved to add my own amen.
A beautiful moment at dusk tonight.
(16.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Balázs on Unsplash
Our lawn has been infested
by violets, a swarming purple.
Next will come white daisies
and bohemian dandelions.
A lone daffodil has
somehow found its way,
but now the sun is out
they’ll start to come en masse.
Bluebells ring amidst a
daze of forget-me-nots.
Wild cyclamen appear
even a stray red strawberry.
These immigrants attract
bees and other insects,
troublemakers buzzing
in tongues I cannot speak.
Be sure it won’t stop there.
No, before you know it
they’ll flock, the birds and bats
and butterflies and crickets.
Every sound and language
under the sun will surround us;
a multitudinous riot
of culture, colour and song.
I fear for my children, they
will never know the past:
our English gardens’ green
and monocultural grass.
The more I talk to those of other countries living here, the more I see the beauty around me.
(14.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by virginia lackinger on Unsplash
Today I’ve been pruning a bush.
That is an understatement.
I’ve been chopping up remains
of vast swathes of branches culled
from overgrown hedges and bushes
and dumping them in our bin.
It’s been a battle, one man
with secateurs versus
Mother Nature gone wild.
Mother Nature is winning.
Eventually, Mother Nature
always finds a way,
but meanwhile, here I am,
trying to tame her excess.
Each piece recalls the past,
each snip a season gone,
and as the wheelie bin is
filled with trimmings, time flies.
Today I’ve been being pruned,
my sense of self stripped back,
perspective re-established,
the brambles will be back.
With winter gradually receding, I’ve been trying in vain to maintain garden order…
(12.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 