Beware of gorillas throwing sticks
Take care of toucans tossing stones
Be cautious capybaras playing tricks
And flippin’ flamingos flinging bones
Look out the lemurs are lobbing logs
The anteater’s taking aim at you
Mind out for missiles fired by dogs
It’s all gone ballistic at the zoo!
Visited Port Lympne Zoo today and stumbled across this sign. A poem had to follow.
(28.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The snaking bramble wraps itself around
the bush, the branches and my arms.
Its tail around my back, it lurches
catching me unawares, and bites.
I spin, it bites again. I twist
and turn, it bites once more. It’s always
faster, darting out of reach.
But I will not be beaten! No!
I persevere and tug and tug,
each pull a victory in perseverance.
Eventually I slump exhausted.
My body bears a thousand wounds,
but all around the bramble lies,
its broken body in submission,
the battle won…
…but not the war.
An afternoon of gardening. I have the scars to prove it.
(26.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stefan Kostić on Unsplash
The rising sun invades through sycamore branches,
its spotlight picking out a lonely snail,
bedecked in stark contrasting coloured spirals.
The Sun’s dazzling white enlivens grenades
of glass dropped onto the lawn’s lengthening stalks.
Spider zip wires, momentarily made visible,
transverse, fragile yet strong, will shortly vanish.
A gang of boisterous sparrows playing tag
fill me with delight as they shout and switch.
Soon they’ll wake the flowers, who somehow slumber
oblivious to this squadron’s raucous games.
This fleeting action is invigorating.
I drink it deeply, let it permeate,
and pray it will sustain me through the day.
A snapshot through the window this morning as I ate my breakfast. Reading Robert MacFarlane’s introduction to Nan Shepherd’s ‘The Living Mountain’, I’ve been encouraged to look deeper at my surrounds.
(25.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Önder Andinç on Unsplash
Today we walk as royalty on our way,
Illuminated by the chestnuts’ light.
Above, a buzzard monitors the crowd
Of rapeseed, waving yellow flags in joy.
A chiffchaff serenades us with a song and
Summer’s first swift performs its daring flypast.
Our daughter’s home for the weekend, so we thought we’d repeat the first leg of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk with her.
(19.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
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
Ode for the Day 