Poem 598 – Modern Laws of Physics

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The contents of the freezer expand to fill all available space, plus some
Packing always takes longer than expected
Weather changes when schools break up
The distance to the service station is a constant
Going into extra time guarantees penalties
Age is inversely proportionate to the number of festival headliners recognised
The youth of today will moan about the youth of tomorrow who will moan about…
Satnavs cannot pronounce Stevenage (Stev-en-age?!)

A variety of ‘laws’ that have come up in conversation this week.
(04.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Thomas T on Unsplash

Poem 596 – The Robin

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He stood so still, I almost didn’t spot him.
Once, his coat was like the one your mother
bought you, saying you’ll grow into it;
he has. Its scruffy now, its tatty edges stretching, fresh orange feathers finally poking through.
Whilst manhood beckons, he has so much to learn.
He eyes me quizzically, wondering if I can
be trusted, if I am a threat. I’m not.
Decision made we stand there eye to eye,
two fellow creatures looking soul to soul.
I’m held until he breaks his gaze, and twitching,
skips into the shade of a nearby waiting bush.

We have a juvenile robin in our garden at the moment, with whom I exchanged a precious moment this morning.
(02.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 595 – Canvas Dreams

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The present sound of rain thrumming transports me.
A boy, I lie inside my sleeping bag.
I am content, surrounded by the gentle
rhythm, a surrogate for my mother’s heart.
Although away, I am at home, encircled
by my father’s strong and reaching branches.
Exhausted by a day’s exertions, I close
my eyes, and smiling, drift back to the present.

It’s the time of year when the hankering to be under canvas always returns, and the sound of rain brings back happy memories.
(01.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Frederick Shaw on Unsplash

Poem 593 – Free

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Here, I’m safe to cast aside my faces,
not letting them slip, but tossing them without
a thought onto a pile heaped on the floor;
peeling off the accumulated layers,
revealing the pink and tender skin beneath,
exposing scars and fragile dreams and joys.
I wander naked and without a care,
secure that you will never laugh and point.
This is no mutually assured destruction,
love predicated on the fear of tit-
for-tat, but mutually assumed devotion.

I’ve been writing a series of devotional notes based upon the theme of rest. It struck me that you can only truly rest when you are able to relax about being yourself. It is a privilege to be able to find others with whom you can do this.
(30.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andre Mouton on Unsplash

Poem 592 – Absent

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Your absence wakes me,
Shakes me into consciousness,
Shouts into my ear,
I want you near, not far.
I keenly sense the space,
You occupied beside me,
The contours of the gap,
You usually fill. I will you back,
Recall your weight, your scent,
Your quiet breathing,
The gravitational pull that,
Holds me in your orbit.
I am contorted, my life abhors
This vacuum that has resulted.
It cannot be filled until
Your peace comes back
And yes, at last, resolves it.

Despite the late journey back yesterday, I woke early this morning, and this poem tumbled out.
(29.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Madi Doell on Unsplash

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 589 – Der Teufel

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Der Teufel prances at the roadside,
His pitchfork pricking passing cyclists,
Urging them ever onwards with
His insane eyes and inane chanting.

This Devil isn’t that of legend,
Instead an ever present fan,
Accompanied by his wild inventions
In every stage of every Tour.

And as the race comes to its end
On free TV here in the UK,
I find myself in the strange position
Of realising I’ll miss Ol’ Nick.

The Tour is so much more than just a race, for example there are many characters that make its backdrop. Didi Senft is one of them, a German who stands at the roadside each stage dressed as the Devil. Only on the Tour…
(26.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
I, Kuebi, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons