Poem 954 – M1 Wings

Spread-eagled, fallen angel’s wings lie prone,
dark, shredded tyres reaching to the heavens.
Did they plummet violently like Icarus,
actively rebelling against their master?
Or was their end more gradual, a slow decline
like falling snow that gently fades away?
The same conclusion waits for both despite
the drama faced: a lonely, cold, hard shoulder.
So take good heed, my friend, and drive with care
not speed, and fly, eyes open, filled with love.

Driving along the motorway today I spotted the familiar sight of remnants of truck tyres lying on the hardshoulder. One strip in particular caught my attention, its edges feathered.
(27.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alexandr Popadin on Unsplash

Poem 953 – Encounters On the Tube

He sees her canine companion and asks
if he may stroke it. She says yes
and soon they’re talking, clicking, smiling.
Names are exchanged, one Brit, one Greek,
but alas this is her stop. She panics.
Are you on Facebook? No, he says,
but by now the doors are closing down
on alternatives and what could be.

Meanwhile, in another carriage she pouts,
arranges her hair and lips and lashes,
and purring, poses for her phone
(it’s neatly perched between her nails).
She loves it and hopes the feeling’s mutual.
It’s safe at least and undemanding,
but underneath she hungers for
the danger of uncertainty.

I love people watching on the tube. These were both scenes I saw on a journey today `although they weren’t simultaneous as the poem suggests. The contrast between them was fascinating.
(26.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

Poem 941 – Hereward Brings Turfrieda Home (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

So now renowned in far Flanders
Across the Narrow Seas, 1
He took Turfrieda in his embrace,
With arms now proven in strength and grace,
Declaring ‘No more should we be displaced,
Let’s live as family!’

We’ve been apart for far too long,
Let’s leave and forge a home,
Back in the Fens, my Father’s land,
Let’s up at once and go!

And so he gathered up his men
With Siwards Red and White,
The chaplain Hugo Britannious,
With prayer and sword a genius,
His brother too, one Withardus,
A knight of valour and might.

And so they sailed across the Seas,
Past France, back home again,
Where Old Man Heron patient stood,
And pike and perch swam in the brook,
And eels swam past the willow wood,
Back to his Mother Fen.

After sharing a few verses with my father yesterday, I’m feeling inspired to press on with this ballad, and determined to intertwine the tale of Hereward with the character of our shared fenland home.
(14.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Image public domain

  1. The Anglo Saxon Name for the English Channel ↩︎

Poem 938 – The Passage

Our kayak slides along the dark, still water.
Here no ripples form, all sound is dampened.
Distant lungs breathe in, the weighty air
constricts and reaching trees bow down in greeting.

We whisper, fearing to disturb this timeless
passage; what lies within its pulsing vein?
I sense some sentience observing me
within, some foreign mind forming judgements.

We’re steered forwards, towards the distant light,
invited by its possibility,
all the time suppressing the nagging doubt
that something is amiss. We close our eyes.

Within the ocean deep, they say, there lurk
treacherous creatures that lure their prey with bio-
luminescence. Attracted by unnatural
suns their victims swim into their mouths.

Inspired by a photo and discussion shared in an online forum I’m part of. Photo taken kayaking in Northern Winsconsin.
(11.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo Kris Smith / WickedDarkPhotography

Poem 935 – The Wreck

Now exposed to the elements,
your striped back bones are bleached
and fading fast. You tilt to dip
your toes into the welcome water
and, finding its embrace enticing,
you slowly slide under its sheets,
a cautious paddler, one inch at a time.

A boat has been abandoned in the river at the foot of our road. Whilst it’s an unsafe eyesore, it’s also fascinating to watch it gradually decay.
(08.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 924 – The Lantern Men (Ballad of the Wake cont.)

Beware the marsh the black crow cries,
Beware the treacherous mire,
Beware deceptive flickering lights,
That tempt and tease us from our stride,
The cunning of these devious guides,
That wickedly conspire.

Beware the evil lantern men,
The haunters of the fen,
That flicker with the barking dog,
That howls within the cloaking fog,
The phantom hound, the grim Black Shuck,
Enticing us to our death.

A bit brain dulled by the heat and the days events, so here’s a couple of verses that may or may not feature in the Ballad of the Wake.
(26.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Fabio Verhorstert on Unsplash

Poem 923 – A Heavenly Blacksmith

The furnace of the African sun
Was the perfect place to forge a friendship,
To meld our souls, two servants together.
It only seemed appropriate that
This friendship was restored today
Under the blaze of this burning Sun.
As one we walk in different fields,
A common life in different cultures,
Together refined by Christ the Son.

In an act of perfect symmetry I was reunited with a friend from Sierra Leone in a heatwave reminiscent of my time there.
(25.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vincenzo Marotta on Unsplash

Poem 902 – Vehicular Choices

The darkening skies amass and wait
for me to mount my bike,
then dump their contents with a laugh
down from the heavens, an unwanted bath,
perhaps I should have chosen a raft
for this elemental fight!

It’s been a day of cycling backwards and forwards to a variety of events, meetings and services. Every time it started to rain…
(04.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026