The carols are done
I’ve sung until I’ve gone hoarse
Tired yet happy
It’s been a day of leading carols with our scratch Nativity play and carol service. Done in, and satisfied.
(14.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ramazan Tokay on Unsplash
Spirituality
Poem 729 – Prepared
The lights are on,
The tree erected,
Nativity placed
Upon its ledge.
The cards delivered
And guests invited,
The talk is written,
Song sheets in place.
The car is packed,
Set list confirmed,
We’re ready for carols,
Our Christ has come.
Tomorrow afternoon it’s our carol service – come and join us! https://wormleyfreechurch.org.uk/2025/11/24/christmas25/
(13.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Owen.outdoors: https://www.pexels.com/photo/christmas-carol-sheet-music-with-decorations-29756511/
Poem 728 – Christmas Lights
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 724 – Festive Footsteps
Trudging around the estate,
Popping our cards through doors
Passing on God’s love,
The Christmas Word from above,
A happy festive chore,
That always feels so great.
Every year at this time I get my steps in delivering Christmas cards around the local area advertising our Christmas services.
(08.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jason Coudriet on Unsplash
Poem 723 – Holding Our Breath
A collective holding of breath,
growing anticipation,
the draining down of sand
and dawning realisation.
A sense of something changing,
reversal of the tide,
the night is nearly over,
two worlds will soon collide.
The earthly land of Adam
and heavenly realm of Christ,
by sin once torn asunder,
the terrible great divide.
But with the Light’s appearing,
the bridging of God’s Son,
his Word to flesh descending,
through love they’ll be made one.
To vulnerable skin he comes,
by human form confined,
it’s Immanuel we’re awaiting,
this hope-filled advent time.
So light a candle with me,
upon the advent wreath,
prepare yourself with prayer,
for the Christ-child to receive.
I was asked to offer a poem for a joint Advent service between my church and a neighbouring one (Rosedale Community Church). Mulling this over, I found an old one I’d written before and reworked it into this, changing the original last line and adding a number of new stanzas.
(07.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Alexandar Todov on Unsplash
Poem 722 – A Smaller Sofa
It’s funny how the small things make a difference.
Our new sofa is smaller than the last;
it means we’re sitting closer. I think that counts.
There are too many things in life that pull us
apart to let soft furnishings join in.
When we were children the old cliché applied,
a cardboard box meant hours of fun ahead.
We’d play all day confined within its walls,
they kept us close and working out the rules
required for us to live our lives together.
We’re too sophisticated now within
our isolated bubbles. Arms’ length is safe.
Lurking behind a username we seek
community simply with those like us.
Perhaps it’s time to buy a smaller sofa.
A conversation this week reminded me of Ben Elton’s observation of the changing definition of community from living with those around you who are different from you, to it being seeking it those who think the same a you. And it’s true, we have a new sofa.
(06.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Pavel Boltov on Unsplash
Poem 720 – Someone’s Coming…
Someone’s coming, yes, you know who,
He’s coming here for me and for you.
He has a list, it’s ever so long,
Which all of our names are written on.
Excitement’s growing, yes it is!
This isn’t something you’ll want to miss!
The wait’s so long, it’s got me in a tizz,
But when he comes, oh, it will be such bliss!
‘So has he been yet?’ my mother asks.
‘I don’t think so, but this wait can’t last,
I’ve been sitting here since night first fell,
Now my eyes are drooping, can’t you tell…’
I’m beginning to think that he won’t come,
I’m falling asleep, my plan’s undone.
But wait a minute, what’s this sound?
A shaking and a rumbling that’s growing loud.
A man in red? No, a man in white!
Suspended by wings, he hangs in flight,
A growing swell, a song of love,
The heavenly host, join in from above!
They say he’s coming, it won’t be long,
Mary’s contractions are growing strong,
You’d better not wait, no, get your skates on,
Dash out of the door, and to the manger run!
Someone’s coming, yes, you know who,
He’s coming here for me and for you,
So do not fear, there’s no need to be afraid,
God’s Son is born and in a manger laid!
I remember the excited anticipation of Christmas morning, and my mother’s annual question as we were eventually allowed downstairs, ‘Has he been yet?’, which led to a jubilant ripping open of Christmas presents. Today, I remain excited, but it’s about the arrival of someone else.
(04.12.25)
Poem 718 – Journey’s End
They say that life’s a journey, a pilgrimage
traversing the twists and turns fate throws at us.
Along the way our paths cross those of others,
and for a while we stroll in company.
These correspondences may be a time
of idle pleasure beneath the sun, strolling
along green ways and happy days of laughter,
with packs that are light and limbs both free and easy.
But other times the road inclines and rocks
and scree make traveling hard and insecure.
These days perhaps the laughter stops and talk
dies down, but still you stumble on together.
But when at last you find the chance to pause
and look back down the way you walked, maybe
you’ll realise the stories made, not told
(like Chaucer), are the journey’s point and treasure.
I spent tonight with friends who worked on the Winter Night Shelter project here, and it’s evolved continued support for homeless folk. An enjoyable evening reminiscing and remembering what we achieved together.
(02.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toomas Tartes on Unsplash
Poem 717 – Wipers Required
Today I shared a miserable, cold, grey day
with a family that I’d not met before.
I drove, to see them, heavy teardrops descending
across the screen, obscuring my field of view.
No doubt there had been other rivulettes
running across their faces, but as we talked
forgotten memories were dusted down
and family jokes revived from photographs.
These led us to a place of hopeful joy
where streams were stilled and hopes restored, and as
the Sun began to rise, I said farewell,
leaving hopeful that they were lightened too.
Today two worlds I occupy collided as I visited a friend from my gaming circles who’d asked if I could take the funeral for his dad.
(01.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Clay LeConey on Unsplash
Poem 716 – The Heavenly Flock
First Sunday of Advent, a late afternoon walk.
After a month of stillness, the air is thick,
filled with the raucous call of avian chatter.
The reason for their talk, the cause of all this conversation? Could it be that the birds
also anticipate the birth of Christ, God’s Son?
We walk on by, hearts lifted by their song.
The bird song this evening was noticeably louder.
(29.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 