Poem 680 – Season’s End

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The crest of winter creeps across the land.
Soon will come the crenellations of white
that edge the fringes of the frozen fields
andd lace the country lanes with a glistening sheen.

We walk. Fingers unused to the cold welcoming
the warmth afforded by coat pockets when thrust
into their hidden depths. Despite the carpet
of autumnal leaves, the light’s subdued, dialled down.

Our conversation hushed, we huddle close
contemplating the coming chill. Even
the birds are so, as summer songs are silenced.
The world draws in and waits for winter’s veil.

We shared an enjoyable walk this morning. The sun is out today, but the signs are there that the seasons are turning.
(25.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sue Winston on Unsplash

Poem 679 – Run!

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When cares collide, sometimes I cram them in
a tin. Tapping the lid down tightly, I hope
to keep them contained, concealed and under control
until I have the time to take them out
and dust them down to deal with them. Sometimes
the tin begins to tremble, threatening
to pop its top and pour its contents upon
the floor, a flood of feelings exploding violently,
crashing indiscriminately without a care.
Beware of what might happen if you wander
nearby when noticing this introvert
begin to blow!

Don’t worry, I’m ok, just messing around with alliteration!
(24.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toby Elliott on Unsplash

Poem 678 – The Final Word?

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Tonight we finished Mark,
A tale of breathless action,
Inspired non-violent protest and
Vivid imagination.

That reaches across our barriers,
Draws in outcast and lost,
Embraces the rejected,
Values the poor and last.

The story that is Jesus,
The man from Galilee
Who stood against the Temple,
The powers and hypocrisy.

Was crowned upon a cross,
This sentence makes no sense,
Thus overturned the tables
And died a traitor’s death.

That builds to its crescendo,
Its resurrection scene,
And then abruptly ends.

I’ve been running a group exploring Mark’s Gospel, made up of church goers and non-church goers. It’s been a really intriguing and insightful journey.
(23.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

Poem 677 – As One

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Making contact when conversation
doesn’t work, when words are sounds
that don’t come back, a look remains
ambiguous, devoid of meaning.

The simple joy of nursery rhymes
sung in a circle, face to face,
that bridge the gap, enliven souls,
provoke a smile and joining in.

The thrill of holding toddlers in the
palm of your hands, provoking laughter,
and drawing those who played apart
together into unison.

One of the joys of my week is doing time at Toddlers. It’s a magic moment when we caught up together as one.
(22.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

Poem 676 – The Thirty Nine (Poetic) Steps

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There are thirty-nine steps
From four hundred and ten to fifty,
For each and every one,
A poem is currently missing

A momentary loss of focus,
Or limited concentration?
A lack of counting skills
And failed administration?

Perhaps it’s something wilder,
A case of espionage?
A chase across the country
From spies in camouflage?

No, I finally must come clean,
So here is my confession,
I’ve come to the conclusion
That they were never written.

And so I’m stepping backwards
And filling in the gaps,
That I’ve apparently caused
By this annoying lapse!

I’ve just made the annoying discovery that some of my poems are missing… or in truth, I failed in my numbering and can’t be bothered to go back and correct them all!
(21.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nick Nice on Unsplash

Poem 674 – Twilight Driving

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The autumn light’s a nowhere liminal place.
The grisly rain descends in grimy grey,
its slimy fingers obscure my vision’s scope.
Passing figures flicker into view
then fade, phasing both in and out like phantoms
haunting the highway in their hazy dusk.
It’s time to temper haste and take no risks.
I turn my wipers on, weary and worried
that I might slip and strike some passerby
before I see them. I slow my speed and pray.
Fearing my vehicle’s veered into a violent
twilight realm, been trapped or transported
to find itself amongst the fickle fae
(how I fear their wily ways!), I wish that I
could wake at once to morning’s welcoming light,
and fix my thoughts upon finding my way to you.

Evening driving in autumnal drizzle.
(19.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Justin Cron on Unsplash

Poem 673 – They Said Yes

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After a morning when I couldn’t settle,
When all I could do was repeatedly check the emails
And then check them again to just make sure,
The email finally dropped. I stopped. My breath,
My heart, ability to think, all paused.
I clicked, the message popped, and for a moment
The letters blurred and swam upon the screen. Until they coalesced, a great big yes.
I screamed.

Following on for yesterday’s poem, the message I was waiting for was wonderfully good news! A grant we had applied to was awarded. So pleased.
(18.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

Poem 671 – Beware the Mask

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A gothic castle stands alone and distant,
Alluring to friends and strangers seeking fame,
Its silent turrets loom aloof and stark,
Above those players in their chilling game.

Each night the corridors are stalked by death,
Dressed in its cloak and visage drained bone pale,
Inside the traitors mass and roll their dice,
Whilst outside in the woods the banshee wails.

Traitors. Fantastic.
(16.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mike van den Bos on Unsplash