Poem 630 – A Chinese Moveaway

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A few months into university
I’d got used to you being away.
The house was ours again and, during
the working day, just mine. I’d play my music
loudly without the risk of disturbing you
and watch whatever I wanted to at lunch.
Is it wrong to say that it was good?
But Covid called and back you came. And stayed.
Today you put an offer on a house
and I am so, so thrilled for you, I am.
But I find inside that I’m not so ready
to say goodbye. An empty house no longer
seems as liberating as before.
I’m sure that I’ll get used to it, I will,
but today just feels a little sweet and sour.

Change is on the horizon.
(05.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash

Poems 629 – Action Hero Gospel

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Opening the cover marks the start
Of an adventure into the unknown.
Who knows what waits between its sheets?
Entire countries lie within.

Like contour lines the black and white
Align to mark its ups and downs.
The turns and bends we find therein,
Those tricky twists, guide and surprise us.

The pace leaves us breathless in wonder
We struggle to keep up with the action.
Turning the page, we find that Christ
Has roared on to the next horizon.

We started a series of evenings tonight exploring Mark’s Gospel with a group of church-goers and non-church-goers. A great conversation with valuable insights from everyone.
(04.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

Poem 627 – Tidal Painting

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The tide comes in, its waves
sweeping across the wall,
a swell of colour crashing
to its very boundaries.
Rock pools form, deep puddles
caught in crevices.
Carefree spray transgresses,
marking past its limits.
But as the wash recedes,
the turbulence dies down,
a pristine beach is left
of smooth and even colour.

We’re decorating at the moment, painting walls one at a time around the house. So often it looks a terrible mess until the very last coat is on and dry.
(02.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ryan Farid on Unsplash

Poem 626 – Turning

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And just like that the shorts have gone away,
the evening dimmed a little earlier.
Dandelions no longer cheer the lawn
now thoughts have turned to autumn.

The summer has been carefully folded up,
and stored in crates of happy memory.
Its carefree days of sun and play will now
only be opened from time to teasing time.

And in the mirror in the store I caught
a passing glimpse of changing seasons,
a hint of what has been, is now, and is
still yet to be, thus turning thoughts to autumn.

The seasons are turning as the schools begin to return.
(01.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Matt on Unsplash

Poem 625 – The Roses

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At the flicks, to watch hot picks,
the battle of the sexes.
Tonight’s rom-com, love come undone,
relationships neglected.

Bunny blended, love has ended
Who will end on top?
Benedict or Olivia,
one will get the chop!

Before too long, I knew I’d got it wrong,
the rabbit evades capture,
as long as it has got the wit,
to avoid Fatal Attraction…

Went to the local Odeon tonight to watch The Roses, the remake of the War of the Roses. It turns out, I’d got my films muddled up, the bunny scene was of course in Fatal Attraction, meaning a hasty rewrite…
(31.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Poem 624 – The Loft

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A day of archaeology in the loft
Peeling back the layers through the years
Past Christmas trees and bags of decorations
Old cardboard boxes kept in case of need

The children’s toys kept for the grandchildren
Memories of precious moments housed in tins
Cards, photos, school books and a wedding dress
Reminders of those now no longer here.

A random iron in a grimy box
A bag of gifts given in Sierra Leone
A stash of trash in need of sorting through
Or treasure trove of objects that we own?

A day spent doing a bit of ‘spring’ cleaning.
(30.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Trnava University on Unsplash

Poem 623 – Trapped

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The sound invades the street, a bitter echo.
Its chants catch in my clothes and tangle
in my hair, the hatred harries me
along the street. I feel defiled and lost.
Dislocated, this isn’t the home I knew.
I want to wash my hands of it with tears,
to wash away the anger and the fear,
but Pilate comes to mind disowning Christ.
Like him I long to act, to turn the tide
to shout a better case, scrub it away,
adorn the posts with love and streets with welcome,
but what to do that will not make it worse?
Walking past, am I guilty of collusion?
Like him I’m helpless, caught in indecision.

Tonight we walked past the growing protests outside a local hotel used to house asylum seekers. I long to get across that this isn’t how everyone feels, how I feel, but how to do this constructively?
(29.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sean Horsburgh on Unsplash

Poem 622 – Carpe Diem

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A moment of opportunity
presents itself, an open door,
a chance for frontier exploration.
A skuttle and leap, the gecko ascends,
quickly seizing it’s golden moment.
A flick of searching tongue reveals
a sensory map of smell and texture,
an alien landscape full of mystery.
It pauses, drinking it in before
refuge is sought within a sleeve.

Pascal, our new crested gecko, took the chance to explore our sitting room for the first time this evening.
(28.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 621 – St. George

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I’ve been away for several days.
Returning, I found our roundabout
adorned in red, the cross of St. George.
What joy to find this Turkish knight
beloved and buried in Palestine,
defender of the vulnerable,
venerated around the world,
witness to the compassion of Christ,
admired by Cross and Crescent alike,
adored in this my neighbourhood.

Our neighbourhood has become adorned by red crosses. I’m not convinced they stand for the same things as St. George…
(27.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025