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
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
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
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
For five days in Scotland my true love packed for me….
Five bat-ter-ries
Four khaki t-shirts
Three pairs of socks
Two walking boots
And a can of insect repellent
Almost all set for five days under canvas near Blairgowrie… (Batteries for the lantern!)
(09.08.24)
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
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
Serial splashes mark dog walkers passing.
One whooping swan flies overhead alone;
its powerful wings, outstretched and proud,
propel with purpose. I wonder at its passing.
The weary winter sun ascends reluctant
from its cloudy bed, as do commuters,
cocooned within their padded hats and coats.
The lake sits, an empty stage awaiting the
entry of its residents, as does the day,
whose curtains open up before me.
This was written after accompanying my son on his morning ride to catch the commuter train to work.
(09.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Allie Reefer on Unsplash
There’s a river where the road is, a
rolling, writhing, river brown that
snakes around my wheels and threatens
to submerge me, drag me down. This
river wasn’t here before, it
caught me by surprise. Before I
had a chance to turn away, it
surged up to my fearful doors. No
turning back, I am committed,
I must stay the course. I hold my
breath, steady the wheel, lift up my
staff and hope and pray. Be bold and
trust that God makes waves and once more
saves the day.
On the 9th day of Christmas I found myself driving in Nottinghamshire through flooded roads brought about first by Storm Gerrit and then Henk. I found myself wondering what the consequences of mingling an electric car with flood water might be…
(04.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Original photo by Chris Gallagher on Unsplash
Trespassers, straying in your walls, we spot
your hidden guard perched in his sentry box.
The lizard keeps his watch o’er Kayaköy,
beneath the spotlight of the bleaching sun.
What is it he protects? The crumbling walls
of empty homes abandoned long ago?
They’re just imperfect fossils, partial shells
picked clean, relics with nothing left to steal.
Perhaps this patient watchman wastes his time?
Maybe. Unless. Have we misread the scene?
Perhaps he guards not there from us but us
from ghosts superimposed upon these bricks:
ghosts, answering the church bells’ Sunday call,
bent over roasting stoves preparing lunch,
selecting apricots from market stalls,
and playing in the streets with shrieks of joy.
These streets witnessed entire lives played out:
first steps, first loves, first jobs, first homes, first child,
grey hairs and wrinkles, growing old, last breaths.
These silent streets still sound their passing sighs.
Until abruptly change came with a dictate
that ripped them, tore them, leaving their shades behind
echoes of families exiled without choice.
A way of life abandoned, torn, replanted.
These ossuaries remain, witnessing to
the cost that’s always paid in conflict by
the innocent. By those caught up without a voice
or choice. Their ghosts cry out in pain and warning.
In our recent trip to Ölüdeniz in Turkey, we hiked through the wood by our resort to Kayaköy, a ‘ghost town’ resulting from the Treaty of Lausanne which brought to an end the Greco-Turkish War of 1919–1922. In it was a protocol for a population exchange between the two countries (see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kayak%C3%B6y). Visiting the town was an eerie experience. It was a very still and empty place, but at the same time, in the corner of your eye you could almost see its former inhabitants living out their daily lives. And yes, there was a lizard. I do not know enough about either conflict to judge the rights and wrongs of events, but I can’t help but find myself making links between the past, there, and events in Gaza today.
(13.11.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Ode for the Day 