Mothering Sunday:
I call to say I love you,
You moan in return.
Have I been chastised?
Once, I would have dreaded that,
Now I’d ask for more.
Now you have no words:
Someone left your tap running,
Drained them all away.
May my few combine
With your heartfelt emotion
And fulfil us both.
Mum can no longer talk making this a bittersweet Mothering Sunday.
(15.03.26)
On the road all day
Driving to see my parents
Every mile worthwhile
A long day but great to see Mum and Dad
(09.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Darwin Vegher on Unsplash
Tomorrow bombs of confetti will
be dropped on those we disagree with.
Campaigns of generosity will
be inflicted on our enemies
and joyful marches will take place
protesting love for the stranger.
Tabloids will express a welcome
and social media will be social.
During elections our politicians
will say nice things about each other,
and spam bots will be used to give
good gifts to naive recipients.
Tomorrow the lion will lie with the lamb
whilst all colours will dance together.
I still believe tomorrow will come,
I do, but for now we just drop bombs.
I refuse to give up but sometimes it’s hard to hold onto hope.
(01.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Erik Brolin on Unsplash
For just one fleeting year we shared a home,
our lives briefly intertwined, grafted
together as family. But then that day,
that desperate day, your branch was torn away.
This wrenching moment lingers unresolved;
do you remember me across the years,
the childlike joy and tantrums that we shared?
Where are you now and who have you become?
My hope? Your dislocated branch may have become
a cutting, finding new and fertile soil,
from where today your roots dig deeply and
your mighty boughs stretch out into the blue.
I lodged for a year with a family whose children were later put in care. I often wonder what became of them.
(28.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by olga brajnovic on Unsplash
Take it, and carefully place it on another
to build a wall, together growing a house.
Alternatively, pick it up, lean back
and sling with all your strength to knock ’em down.
The choice we face.
(27.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash
A word out of place is ….. awkward
It forces us to walk around it,
navigate its corners carefully
lest we should bump ourselves.
The temptation is to ….. shout,
ironic really when you think
about the reason for its angle.
But grace is difficult and costs.
Grace calls on us to be the ones
who ….. hold the tower up when things
begin to topple. This may be
against the rules we share but such is ….. love.
It’s such a shame that what should have been such a celebration of John Davidson’s work at the BAFTAS was turned into something else.
(23.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash
It’s cold, bitterly cold, but nothing that
steak pie and mash won’t fix along with coffee.
We sit, replete and beginning to glow, and smile
at love and friendship grown over a life-
time spent together. It’s been a day spent tracking
those who’ve walked that ancient way before us,
who intertwined and merged to form the trunk
and spreading branches of our tree. We take
our place and, longing, reach up to the sun.
It’s been a fun day exploring places my wife’s family came from and enjoying each other’s company. The photo is of Selby Abbey where one ancestor was baptised.
(18.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
The simple joy of conversation,
Exploring questions, scaling perspectives,
Rowing down lost rivers of memory
And seeking treasures of connection.
Another quick poem at the end of busy day that finished with a lovely evening chatting with Dad.
(17.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Metin Ozer on Unsplash
Bad weather threatens,
Will it rain on our parade?
Gentleness saves us.
Some tricky pastoral situations today averted through the application of prayer and gentleness.
(16.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Shlomo Shalev on Unsplash
To steal, or not to steal, that is the question:
Whether ’tis better to grasp immunity
And run the risk of being banished, or
To face the blows of traitors’ bows and arrows?
Which fearful fate is worse: to walk or sleep;
The paranoia of the table or
The letter on the chair that passive slays?
Whichever choice is made, the chance is real:
‘Cos other’s hands the dagger doth employ,
Considering options that perchance destroy.
Loving The Traitors again this year, what gripping TV.
(16.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Albert Stoynov on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 