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
Nine mile loop on foot
Through woods, fields and viaducts.
Above model planes
And red kites glide the thermals.
Back just as the Sun goes down.
After lunch we decided to go back and do the second loop of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk, knowing that we would be getting to the car as the sun went down. No time to hang around!
(08.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The sun rises, and with it rise our spirits,
its warmth begins to thaw our dormant souls.
Woken from their winter hibernation,
emerging smiles begin to bud then flower.
Above the bird song swells in volume and richness,
and here below our voices respond in kind.
Funny how all it takes to wash away
the blues are blue skies, blazing with glorious gold.
This week, Spring has sprung.
(06.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Psalm 19:1 NIV
The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Raising my smartphone to the skies I search
the heavens for their ancient inhabitants;
modern tech becoming a prayer calling
the old gods to be modern occupants.
Small Mercury, messenger to the gods,
flits faintly between the horizon’s distant flames,
hiding from sweet Venus’ advances
as she shines upon young lovers’ nocturnal games.
Above, King Jupiter reigns from his heavenly throne
causing me to crick my neck not bend my knee.
Finally, hawkish Mars asserts his strength
his face flushing in his angry fury.
This revelation thrills me as I learn
the identities of these distant glowing bulbs,
I revel in the glory of these prizes
as they’re poured from creation’s laden treasure vaults.
I was introduced to the Stellarium app recently. I took it out for a whirl at 6.30 this evening to discover I could see four planets in the sky with the naked eye. Amazing.
(04.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by isaac sloman on Unsplash
Past.
The tree drank deeply of the earth’s dark soil,
its roots absorbing water from secret distant pools.
Stretching its wooden limbs it reached out branches,
all striving for the shining sun’s bright rays.
From sapling to its full grown majesty
it slowly grew, unfurling limbs then leaves.
Present.
This table’s dead; no sap or life flow here.
Its extendable leaves now lie in twisted pieces;
they’re warped by age and wear and wrenched by boots.
Redundant, I throw the separated branches
into the boot to drive it to the dump,
hurling them into the designated coffin.
Future.
The future is as yet uncarved, unknown.
Will it be pulped, transformed to card or paper?
Or maybe mulched, returning nutrients
back to the earth to nourish future roots?
Out of its greatness, greatness may return;
as earth to earth, from death comes life again.
From and afternoon spent taking old and broken furniture to the local ‘dump’ (recycling centre), sprang thoughts about the cycle of life.
(02.03.25)
Ode for the Day 