Travel

Poem 610 – Riding in the Dark

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A nighttime ride, 1.30, and it’s dark,
the perfect time to perch upon the saddle
and race against the waking of the lark.
No doubt there’s many who would think I’m mad,
but, peddling at this solitary hour, I find
the space to think and ponder makes me glad.
All other voices banished from my mind,
a purity of focus can be found,
as thoughts and legs in perfect rhythm combine.

Last night I joined friends in Enfield for an evening of boardgames. As usual we finished in the wee hours. Having been a hot day, I treated myself to cycling there and back. Decided today to try a poem in a terza Rima form, three three line stanzas with an ABA BCB CDC rhyming format, and my ride came to mind.
(16.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Samantha Gilmore on Unsplash

Poem 604 – Victoria Line

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Walthamstow Central,
   The doors slide open,
Blackhorse Road,
   Beckoning us on,
Tottenham Hale
   Entering warily,
And Seven Sisters,
   Surreptitiously spying.
Finsbury Park
   We clatter and sway,
And Highbury and Islington,
   Involuntary community,
King’s Cross St. Pancreas,
   Friends and strangers,
Euston and Warren Street,
   Close yet distant.
Then Oxford Circus,
   A blurring of boundaries,
Victoria and Pimlico,
   Of personal space,
Vauxhall and Brixton,
   A sigh of relief,
We’re spewn out together,
   At the end of the line.

Travelling on the Victoria Line today, I realised how well the station names scanned with train like rhythm.
(10.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dan Roizer on Unsplash

Poem 603 – An Ode to the A303

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A303 (and associated roads),
nothing else can match your timeless reach!
Neighbouring Stonehenge has mystified us,
entranced us for millennia,
but even it pales into insignificance
compared to your majestic tarmac track.

We happily travel miles to congregate,
line up like creeping snakes to see your span.
Meditating for hours in your presence,
we while away the hours in wordless wonder,
as time stands still, as do we too, in cars
that queue for hours and hours and hours and hours…

The journey home from holiday in Devon today was not the quickest…
(09.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ana Paula Grimaldi on Unsplash

Poem 599 – Bideford

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The sound of seagulls, coastal breeze,
a solace from the daily scene.
Here Tarka swims tugged by the tide
beneath the ancient long bridge wide,
and water babies also dive
deep waters, seeking Westward Ho!
But sadly three became undone,
three daughters died, for witchcraft hung.
But now, where rope makers wove their wares,
the sun shines down shedding our cares.

We arrived in Bideford today, a fascinating town with a tapestry of literary and historical connections.
(05 08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 591 – An Existential Crisis at the Services

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A late night stop at the services
having just found the M4 was closed.
‘I guess you see all sorts in here?’ I asked.
‘Yes’, replied the woman in Costa,
‘The weird and the wonderful!’ She laughed.
I left with a life saving coffee,
wondering which, if either, was me.

A long day helping my daughter decorating. Diverted on the way home.
(28.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Blake Verdoorn on Unsplash

Poem 590 – At the Service Station

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Transient people on the
move exchanging places.
Babies over parents’
shoulders, bleary faces.
Food you’d never normally
buy, inflated prices.
Nicknack stalls and wonky
stacks of bright suitcases.
Warning by the loos
attendants of both sexes.
Children bribed with chocolate,
caffeine shots ingested.

Stopped at the M4 services on the way to Bristol today.
(27.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Gerardo Bonifacio on Unsplash

Poem 567 – When I Was In Morocco

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‘When I was in Morocco’,
You’ve often heard me start,
Recalling long ago,
My adventures of the past.

I haggled in the souk,
Swapped tales in Marrakesh,
I walked forgotten routes,
Put physics to the test.

I fought with crazy gangsters,
Chased Nazis on train tops,
Sought fabled ancient treasures
And secrets time had lost.

I faced my deepest fears,
In pits of writhing snakes,
And crossed  precarious wings
On acrobatic planes.

I navigated maps,
Acquired through games of chance,
Survived the booby traps
And puzzles of the past.

But now I’m getting old,
I’m told those days are gone,
But in memories I’m still bold,
And in dreams, they still live on.

Watching the final Indiana Jones film tonight, it merged with my father’s ‘infamous’ stories of his time in Morocco.
(05.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 553 – Driving in the Sun

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Driving home today,
my brain has turned to mush,
I’ll be hard pushed to say
anything that makes sense.

The Sun did not relent,
remaining loud, despite
the cloud, that meant it was
not quite as hot as thought.

I’m writing as I ought,
but nothing much profound
is found, within my head,
for me to say today.

And so I think I’ll stop
and sleep the night away.

It wasn’t as hot as we thought it might be today, but driving home from visiting family frazzled me somewhat nevertheless.
(21.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Rajiv Bajaj on Unsplash

Poem 518 – Boundary Market

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A cacophony of smells assaults me,
seducing me with savoury scents.
Fresh cheeses pair with delicate herbs,
sitting by artisan breads and rolls.
Pies with flavours strange and familiar,
entice in rows of crisp gold cases.
Strawberries sell by cups or punnet,
(chocolate sauce is optional).
A brazen rainbow envelops me,
its racks of exotic, colourful fruits
transport me to a foreign land.
Within these streets life is compressed,
our bodies densely stirred together,
a heady cocktail of taste and language.

We were in London today for a show at The Globe today. Arriving early we wandered over to Borough Market, a first time for me.
(17.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Taylor Keeran on Unsplash