Humility, a fragile flower blown
by wind and whim, its petals pulled in weakness,
confetti scattered at others’ casual command?
Or robust root, a quiet confidence
that’s born in understanding who you are,
releasing shoots that see and serve and love?
I was at the funeral today of a friend and mentor, a strong, quiet, humble man.
(25.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash
My quiet place, site of transfiguration,
green sanctuary before the trials begin.
I walk between your slender trunks, inhale,
and feel your peace invade the deepest corners.
The dappled light caresses me, your leaves
massage my soul. Here, in your gentle shade,
my pulse slows down, my breathing calms and fears
take shape. No longer nebulous they are
reduced and I am raised. My shoulders straighten,
back aligns and chin lifts up. The chiffchaff
laughs, singing to my core, restoring order.
Inaudible, your water’s deep joins in,
a living bass sounding permanence.
Strolling, the different colours of the seasons
rotate: spring’s budding green gives way to summer’s
blue, before the autumn’s sweet decay
to winter’s monochrome. With each a different
chorus echoes, from warblers’ ecstasy
to cuckoos’ mournful sigh. With every scent,
each call and tint, the grace of hope is given.
A comment by the poet Malcolm Guite about the need for places like Tolkien’s Lothlórien, or moments like the disciples witnessing the transfiguration in order to be refreshed and enabled to cope with the challenges and trials of life, made me wonder where I turn to. Wandering through the nearby River Lee is certainly one such place.
(23.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Kayaköy, your bleached stones bloom before me.
Mourning your children snatched before their time,
your silent wailing groans throughout your homes,
echoes disturbing graves and gathered grime.
But even as these tears descend there’s hope:
chaffinches become redemption’s raucous choir
and nature’s tendrils reach around each stone,
their blooms compose a far more cheerful flower.
We hiked back to revisit Kayaköy having been there a few years back. A place of terrible atrocities which is gradually being taken over by an abundance of wildlife.
(09.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
No teenager’s room, the clothes
were neatly arranged, the face
cloth folded to the side –
no need for panic here.
There’s no runaway or theft,
no missing person to file,
just hope born from a stone
casually tossed away.
A quick poem at the end of a busy Easter Day.
(05.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Dylann Hendricks | 딜란 on Unsplash
Tomb like, the chrysalis hangs
inert and stoney cold.
All breath has gone. Death’s boney
touch is resident here.
What was has gone, the door
is sealed, its full-stop placed.
What hope, that nagging whisper
of a different punctuation?
The day after the day before? Or the day before the day to come.
(03.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo Armon • CC BY-SA 3.0
Two outstretched arms
Pinned like a butterfly
Collected under glass,
Its beauty cruelly faded.
A rigor mortis shrug
Perpetual question posed;
What does this execution
Mean? And why like this?
Two thousand years on and this question still demands reflection.
(03.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wim van ‘t Einde on Unsplash
The air was replete with birdsong,
Heavy with light and life
But that was in the day
And now the night has come.
With darkness’ descent,
The breeze is suffocated,
Breath evacuated,
And every song is stilled.
Watch the flowers close,
Hiding their colours, concealing
Faces, whilst ancient olives
Turn their crinkling backs.
Look, one by one their weighty
Eyes begin to droop,
Joining the garden’s slumber.
Now see! The soldiers come.
Today we remember the Last Supper after which Jesus and his friends head out to the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus was arrested. The opening line came from a walk this lunchtime in Lee Valley Park which was glorious with birdsong; a counterpoint to my reflections on the day.
(02.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Stacey Franco on Unsplash
Did you spring up those final nervous steps,
Or walk with heavy heart and dragging legs?
Was it laced with anger, your request?
A sense of sadness, or perhaps regret?
Did you expect a welcoming embrace,
Or fear closed faces turning you away?
What did you expect to get in exchange,
How many coins made up the going rate?
What led you here? What fueled this giving up?
And when did you discover your mistake?
Thirty silver coins does not sound much;
How much did you expect this deed to make?
Was your life dictated by the sword?
Or did you for love betray your friend and lord?
Judas has always intrigued me. He is only recorded as asking one question of the chief priests, ‘What are you willing to give me?’ I have a lot more that I would ask him.
(01.04.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash
Matthew 21:18-22
The fruitless fig tree withers,
its barren branches bend
contorted in their thirst,
a dry and desperate end.
Besieging soldiers’ swords,
the temple stones are torn
one tumbled on another
a crumbled carcass scorned.
A cursing Christ decries
the poverty of their lives
the lack of love that’s seen
no faith, no fruit, just leaves.
Today’s Holy Tuesday of Easter week, the day Christians traditionally remember Jesus’ cursing of the fruitless fig tree and the fruitlessness of the Temple this symbolised.
(31.03.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wyxina Tresse on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 