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
A rumble of thunder rolls across the bay.
A portent of trouble? Uncertainty ahead, and
before too long rainfall joins the fray.
Thankfully with rain coats packed we’re ready
and soon it stops, the sun returns, the grey
clouds drift away. We’re not deterred, instead
we step on out, we’re hopeful for the day
and making the most of being by the Med.
The sun emerges, shadows mark our way.
We walk past golden Atatürk the head
of modern Turkey, tall and proud, today
a statue under whose purview we tread.
A dicey looking day turned out well with a lovely walk into Marmaris along the coast.
(06.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Guarded by the hills and
Lit by moon alone, the
Midnight lagoon sits still
Under Turkish skies.
Echoing around the bay
Cicada songs resound
As, guided by the stars,
Cygnus, the swan, flies by.
The water calls to me,
Invites me to slip under
Its twilight sheets, entranced by
Mediterranean charms.
We were captivated by our first views over Marmaris bay last night.
(05.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
At security
Bring patted down, of course
Clearly suspicious
It’s always me…
(04.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The autumn light’s a nowhere liminal place.
The grisly rain descends in grimy grey,
its slimy fingers obscure my vision’s scope.
Passing figures flicker into view
then fade, phasing both in and out like phantoms
haunting the highway in their hazy dusk.
It’s time to temper haste and take no risks.
I turn my wipers on, weary and worried
that I might slip and strike some passerby
before I see them. I slow my speed and pray.
Fearing my vehicle’s veered into a violent
twilight realm, been trapped or transported
to find itself amongst the fickle fae
(how I fear their wily ways!), I wish that I
could wake at once to morning’s welcoming light,
and fix my thoughts upon finding my way to you.
Evening driving in autumnal drizzle.
(19.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Justin Cron on Unsplash
Our eyes meet.
Not across a crowded room
or pulsing dance floor
but in the train window,
falling upon each other’s
reflected against the backdrop
of a quickly changing landscape.
This is, of course, exactly
what we were seeking to
avoid. We flinch confused,
not certain what to do,
before shifting our focus
to gaze upon the verge.
Being English on the train means avoiding human interaction. On Saturday evening I failed despite my best efforts.
(13.10.25)
Back to the flat country
The land of black peat soil,
eternal horizons and hanging
mist. The womb that bore me.
Of tumbling buildings and ditches.
Of endless skies that leave us
falling into the view.
A dreamscape that still haunts me.
Returned to the Cambridgeshire fens today.
(12.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo public domain by Dr Border at English Wikipedia
Ode for the Day 