We glide, we climb,
Our pedals turn,
We grunt and groan,
To creaking cranks,
And sighing pants,
Until we reach,
The top and fly.
After too long a break, I got on my bike again today and did the next leg of the London-Walsingham Camino doing a ~40 mile figure of eight around Ware, Hunsdon, the Hadhams, and Bishops Stortford. Really enjoyable spin and company.
(22.12.25)
I only had ten minutes to trace the journey
from heaven to earth, the Word to flesh descending.
The Son becoming one with us for love
takes on our form, enters fragility,
and there is shunned. Pursued they flee,
the holy family, to Egypt’s bosom.
Asylum sought, by strangers saved, until
at last they can return. Can time compress
this sacrifice? Ten minutes can’t suffice,
but asks us if we’d welcome them today.
I had the privilege of preaching at a local church’s carol service today, and the challenge of compressing the awe and challenge of Christmas into just ten minutes. I thought I’d try again in ten lines.
(21.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kevin Bückert on Unsplash
The glare. The glistening glass that cloaks the sky.
The ice erupts, our eyes afire burn
with blinding brightness born of cold. We freeze.
Our hardened hands are cut, by sharpness hurt,
as numbed we notice not that time is stopped;
my dire realm reversed from darkened depths
to a fiercesome land of frightening light and frost.
We sail until we’re stilled by the sight of smoke
issuing forth from the volcanic crest that carves
the skyline. Awestruck and silent we kneel and pray.
I’ve been reading Erebus by Michael Palin, about the ship Erebus babe after the Greek God of the underworld. This dramatic scene as she sailed in search of the south pole caught my attention.
(20.12.25)
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
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
‘I’m going to ABBA tomorrow’, he said
Fantastic, I replied. I’d heard
so many good things about the show,
and how the holograms seemed so real.
Not having seen the gig myself,
and wanting to add to the conversation,
I started to talk about a show
that I’d just seen the night before.
I saw a jolt upon his face,
a mental change of gear, but ever
composed and mindful of the other,
he quickly engaged with what I’d said.
Realising, perhaps, that I had moved
too quickly from his coming joy,
I returned the conversation to
our quartet of Seventies songsters.
His features creased a merry crease,
‘I must have miscommunicated,
I didn’t mean the sequinned Swedes,
but Aber as in Aberystwyth!
The moral of this mutual blunder?
The danger of assuming shared
perception, a common understanding,
obvious isn’t always so.
A comic conversation from this morning that makes a perfect illustration.
(23.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andrew Ebrahim on Unsplash
Last week I lost three hours.
This was careless I know,
But at some point along
The way, they were stolen,
Snatched from under my nose.
Whoever took them must
Have had a fit of remorse,
For yesterday, they sneaked
Them back, leaving my body
Confused and out of sorts…
My body’s more than a little discombobulated today (what a great word that is!)
(12.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caleb Toranzo on Unsplash
Back home the water’s never blue but here,
here it shines with an elusive tone that conjures
up memories of childhood colouring in.
Its iridescent casual lapping stands
in stark relief to the hillside that tears upwards,
ripping apart the sky with bauxite rust.
The sea’s alive, its gentle breathing teaming
with interweaving shoals of rolling fish
that dance in perfectly synchronized waves of life.
We sit absorbed by what we see, reluctant
to say farewell, but knowing that we must,
our mood tinged with farewell blue.
Inevitably the holiday has to end. I’m sad to say goodbye to its beautiful backdrop and hope to return another day.
(11.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Behind stone doors the dead sleep on,
two thousand years and more of slumber.
They’re waiting for the trumpet call,
but what’s another year to them?
Their clothes now hang long out of fashion,
the colours faded out of sight,
their tongue has fallen still, their names
forgotten to the mists of time.
Imagine if they woke today to
this world they wouldn’t recognise,
where billionaires fly out to space
and knowledge lives in webs online.
Where hearts aren’t weighed at judgement time
but swapped if ailing to save the living,
and gold’s exchanged for virtual digits
that dwell in plastic cards of credit.
But then they’d take another look
and smile that boney smile again,
as those that have still rule the roost,
humanity has barely changed.
On our Dalyan boat trip on the 7th, we passed the Necropolis. The ‘residents’ were buried some two and a half millennia ago. Life now is surely very different and yet, somehow the same…
(09.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Stepping off the beaten track,
we stumble on a twisting way,
that reaches up towards the sky,
betwixt the ancient buildings grey.
There, sitting in a doorway hunched,
a crone of many years gone by,
surrounded by her varied wares
to sell to tourists that catch her eye.
Come see my trinkets, dear, she cried,
don’t walk on by, come look and see,
I’ve perched here 30 years have I,
sat underneath this twisted tree.
I hesitate but for a moment,
but even that was far too long,
she caught me with a gnarly hand,
her bony grip surprisingly strong.
Pray tell me, pretty one, your name,
bend close and whisper in my ear,
I will not bite, my pretty one,
there’s nothing here for you to fear…
And so I found myself lean to
against an inner shrill alarm,
and muttered quietly my name,
as claws crawled up along my arms.
No sooner had the words slipped out
had she lept up and with a laugh
called out my dear I’m free at last
and cackling ran back down the path.
I found myself turn strangely weak,
and trembling fall down to my knees,
where catching sight of my young hands,
a ice cold fear my heart did freeze.
My fair young hands had wrinkled over,
my long blond hair had turned to grey,
my once lithe legs were now immobile,
my back had hunched within a day.
I tried to move but found I couldn’t,
my limbs were rooted to the spot
a curse, once hers, had passed to me
her lonely trade became my lot.
So if you find yourself walking
along the streets of Marmaris,
take care, my pretty one, take care,
of ancient crones with a whispered kiss.
Walking through Marmaris Old Town yesterday, we did indeed stumble upon an old woman selling bits and pieces from her doorstep. Kate got caught by her sand she was very insistent! We eventually managed to escape worth no purchases of unwanted gifts made. This poem quickly emerged as a story that had to be told.
(07.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 