Nostalgia

Christmas Lights

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A chain of dancing lights effortlessly
pirouette across the darkened stage.
Full of childhood innocence, they search
us out, then smile and wave in recognition.
In that moment, our weariness subsides
and we return the smile with glowing faces.
But innocence must end, their moment passes,
and as the day begins they take their bow.

We decorated the church last night. Every year, the putting up of these lights officially signals the start of festivities, combining childhood memories and contemporary meaning.
(12.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 716 – Eternal Horizons

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Back to the flat country
The land of black peat soil,
eternal horizons and hanging
mist. The womb that bore me.
Of tumbling buildings and ditches.
Of endless skies that leave us
falling into the view.
A dreamscape that still haunts me.

Returned to the Cambridgeshire fens today.
(12.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo public domain by Dr Border at English Wikipedia

Poem 675 – Turning

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And just like that the shorts have gone away,
the evening dimmed a little earlier.
Dandelions no longer cheer the lawn
now thoughts have turned to autumn.

The summer has been carefully folded up,
and stored in crates of happy memory.
Its carefree days of sun and play will now
only be opened from time to teasing time.

And in the mirror in the store I caught
a passing glimpse of changing seasons,
a hint of what has been, is now, and is
still yet to be, thus turning thoughts to autumn.

The seasons are turning as the schools begin to return.
(01.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Matt on Unsplash

Poem 644 – 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 616 – When I Was In Morocco

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‘When I was in Morocco’,
You’ve often heard me start,
Recalling long ago,
My adventures of the past.

I haggled in the souk,
Swapped tales in Marrakesh,
I walked forgotten routes,
Put physics to the test.

I fought with crazy gangsters,
Chased Nazis on train tops,
Sought fabled ancient treasures
And secrets time had lost.

I faced my deepest fears,
In pits of writhing snakes,
And crossed  precarious wings
On acrobatic planes.

I navigated maps,
Acquired through games of chance,
Survived the booby traps
And puzzles of the past.

But now I’m getting old,
I’m told those days are gone,
But in memories I’m still bold,
And in dreams, they still live on.

Watching the final Indiana Jones film tonight, it merged with my father’s ‘infamous’ stories of his time in Morocco.
(05.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 509 – Travelling Backwards

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Today I’m travelling backwards
Facing the wrong way around
Reversing to Cambridge by train

The present flees before me
Doppler effect in years
Returning to my home

Revisiting forgotten passions
Middle age flies by
Resurfacing our childhood

Trips to Cambridge always make me nostalgic. Aging does that too.
(08.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 487 – Old Eyes

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A thousand faces stacked upon the desk.
Rewinding back in time, their faces flux,
the layers peel, year after year, devolving
to disclose the child back at the start.

Upon the floor I see myself, only,
at first I do not recognize this stranger.
The face looking up at me there is not
the face I wear today, its features shod.

But it’s always the eyes that give the game away
as eye to eye we size each other up,
mirrors of the soul reflecting upon
each other in perpetual recognition.

Whilst I’ve been working, my wife has been sorting through old photos next to me. Quite a trip down memory lane.
(16.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 468 – Side A

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I slip the vinyl from its paper sleeve,
carefully cradling it with my outstretched fingers,
holding it gently like a newborn babe.

Placing it tenderly, I dust it with a cloth
then brush the needle clean. This tactile ritual
just as important as the sound produced.

The customary crackle. ‘Hello old friend’, I smile.
The soundtrack of my youth plays on with only
the occasional interloper interrupting.

Have I reached the groove at record’s end
that leaves us turning on an endless loop,
or does the promise of a second side remain?

Working late today, listening to Roger Taylor’s ‘Outsider’ album. The record may be fairly new, but the voice is a long familiar travelling companion.
(28.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 359 – Curlew Crescent

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A home from home, now distant and yet familiar.
I could not reproduce it accurately, it’s been
so many years since I last played there as
a boy, however, objects, clips and scents
remain, impressions deeply embedded within.

Neatly pruned roses with subtle scents,
a maroon coloured football with white pentagons,
a fold up chair with padded back and handles,
a fence over which the neighbour and I would play,
and books of Brooke Bond Tea cards full of adventure.

The ghosts of a cat and Uncle L, their faces
blurred but their unseen presence looms large and real.
Chopping mint and adding vinegar for sauce,
roast lamb, potatoes and carefully cut carrots,
an after dinner butter mint stuck to the teeth.

How can it be almost half a century since I last played in my grandparents house in Bedford?
(20.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Billy Cox on Unsplash