Travel

Poem 301 – Mind the Gap

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Please mind the gap, tread carefully or
Risk falling through the grasping crack.
Beneath the step awaits unseen,
A doom which hides below the tracks.

You hear the scream of biting brakes,
But nothing is as it might seem.
That sound? A mighty creature’s roar,
As along the tracks it eagerly streams.

This beast that lurks unlit by light,
Over the eons has gone berserk.
And now its hand your ankle grasps,
To pull you down with just one jerk.

There’s not much time, so please act now,
Don’t hesitate, and you’ll be fine.
Don’t hang around, because you’ll find,
Upon your bones he’ll gnaw and grind!

I had a meeting in London today, and wrote this on the tube; the phrase ‘mind the gap’ demanded some form of comic verse. To be read out loud with expression!
(23.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Tim Hüfner on Unsplash

Poem 273 – Home

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Sleeping bag grappled.
Tent dried and packed,
along with a random item to be
rediscovered next time.
Rubbish disposed of,
green and not.
Excess taken to the foodbank.
Car sought in a car park
stripped to the bare essentials.
Give thanks when I find it.
Satnav set for ‘Home’.
Strange, this is home too.
A porcelain toilet will be nice though
and a proper cup of tea.
The wristband stays on,
I’m not quite ready yet
to say goodbye.

Greenbelt’s over for another year, and what a cracking weekend it was, despite having four seasons in as many days!
(26.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 264 – Waiting

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Frankie was happier on the return leg,
senseless with mirth at his own jokes.
More sleep was had, the gradual detachment
that comes when homeward bound.
Retreating inwards we count –
weekend timetables require patience.
A mindless state’s achieved.

A better journey on the overnight Megabus, helped by the lively ceilidh last thing.
(17.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 263 – Farewell

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Farewell pink swabs of rosebay willowherb
Farewell fields awash with barley gold
Farewell Ericht, your waters blue and fast
Farewell Blairgowrie, your starlit nights alive

Today we said a sad farewell to our campsite for the week and headed back to Edinburgh and then to home. Car returned to to the rental base, a bright red Fiat 500.
(16.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 260 – Camping Dawn Chorus

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The clicking of bones:
a warm up stretch,
accompanied by
a yawn.
The sound of zips:
first fumbling with
the sleeping bags,
then doors,

inner and outer,
up and down,
a campsite’s rowdy
percussion.
Urgent feet
then crashing doors –
seems someone desperately
rushing.

It sounds as if
the whole world’s playing
just metres from
your pitch.
You check your watch
it must be late
but no it’s barely
six.

What is this madness?
With bleary eyes
you peer out but
to find,
there’s no one up
and all is still
but one child on the
horizon.

This morning wasn’t at all like this, although there a number of bird calls overnight. The familiar sound of zips, however, triggered many early morning campsite memories…
(13.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 259 – Frankie Boyle Is On Our Bus

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Frankie Boyle is on our bus
Berating latecomers for holding us up.
He declares he’d have said no
if it wasn’t for their children.
I believe him. Relenting he moans
under his breath. Loudly.
A heckler winds him up.
He has a go at him too and then
is sent back to apologise.
He’s not having a good day
and you sense it isn’t over…

Our latecomers cannot whisper.
At four am they still haven’t mastered it.
I might become Frankie too.
My neck compresses every time I relax,
and although my legs go to sleep, I cannot.
The rain begins and the wipers break.
But just as all looks grey the Scottish
hills emerge to save the day
and all is good. Except for Frankie.
He has to find a replacement bus
for those going to Glasgow…

Overnight we travelled to Edinburgh on the Megabus. If I’m honest, I’m not quite with it yet today! I hope our conductor has a better day…
(12.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 252 – Canvas Calling

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Getting out the tents
Straightening out the poles
Counting out the pegs
Shaking out the folds
Cutting out the excess
Clearing out my soul

A lighter verse today – an antidote to the news – the canvas is beckoning! Preparing for a break in Scotland and then my annual pilgrimage, Greenbelt Festival.
(05.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 233 – Island Life

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We sit in studied
isolation,
our eyes averted.
The burnt, warm air
smashes against us.
An oscillating thrum
assaults our
auditory cliffs.
No man an island?
Upon the Tube
we’re an archipelago!

On Monday I talked about John Donne’s famous ‘no man is an island’ quote in a school assembly on Genesis 1 and the interconnectedness of life. This resonated with the Abdul Salam talk I attended at Imperial that evening and his love of the underlying symmetry in physics. Travelling on the Tube, however, seemed to clash with this concept…
(31.01.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Original photo Photo by Austin Neill on Unsplash