The satisfaction
Of crisp creases,
Neat lines aligning
The sides of sleeves.
Gliding along
The front and back,
A perfect piece
Of art in action.
A pile of ironing awaits. I’m putting it off although I always find shirts perversely satisfying.
(30.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ryoji Hayasaka on Unsplash
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
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
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
Interviews and in-laws
No time to type today
But perceiving poetry in
All its alliteration
A busy day with no time for more than a quick scribble.
(12.09.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Álvaro Serrano on Unsplash
SMACK! Smashed gravel flies.
A shower of shards are scattered
as the boule descends.
Crashing into its target,
it sends it scything across
the crunching gravel court.
With pumping fists, the players
cheer, opponents groan,
their pole position lost.
One final fling, all hope
is pinned on nicking the nearest
boule placed by the jack.
A pause for silent prayer
before the bending player
looses their last chance…
Today we spent a lovely sunny time with friends, culminating in a tight hand of petanque. We lost, joy won.
(11.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
We sit outside, enjoying Spring’s fresh sun,
sharing a cup of tea and conversation.
The heavens’ freshness is invigorating,
shining light into wearied Winter limbs.
We aren’t the only ones awakened by
the afternoon’s blue opportunity;
the sky swells with ranks of choristers,
alert, their chests puffed out with jubilant song.
Performing bass, the racket of the rooks erupts,
joining the tree-born tenor pigeons’ coos.
Insistent great tits drill their alto beats, as
greenfinch glissandos trill in soprano splendour.
At the finale’s final flourish we file
out of the garden, aware that we’ve been treated
by a most marvellous rendition of this
anarchic avian anthem. We applaud.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat outside with my parents, ensuring the weather and the glorious birdsong.
(25.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Svetozar Cenisev on Unsplash
The black crows wheeled about and dived,
Three harbingers of doom descending
In perfect harmony, upon the man.
I knew not why they chose this wanderer,
Just what his crime or cause of grief,
But froze in horror as they harangued him.
Their cawing clawed along my back,
Paralleling their piercing talons,
Which, rampant, ripped his suit to shreds.
Brandishing his umbrella like a bayonet,
He thrust it furiously at the fiends,
But repelling them not retreated.
Around the corner he ran in terror,
Before, when out of sight, he screamed
A sound like shrieking foxes wailing.
At last I roused myself and ran
To offer help in fending off
These beasts, but found them gone, a feather
Left lying on the floor, the only
Evidence of their existence.
And of the man? No sign remained…
I never found the missing man,
Nor saw the hellish crows once more,
Except asleep in anxious dreams,
But even now I shrink in fear,
Upon the sight of silent birds
Aloft on wing or lonely trees.
Walking to church today I saw the crows sweeping in a curve, one before the other, in a downward dive. Starting to write about the sight, this is what came out. I didn’t intend to write gothic or alliterative verse, but that’s where it took me.
(18.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stary Smok on Unsplash
‘The Norman horde must be holding us up ahead,’
I laughed out loud, as we languished in the lane.
And so imagine my surprise when, making
it around the roundabout, we ran into
a fearsome figure fighting on a horse!
Before him fought on foot a Saxon armed
with axe and anger, armour dulled by blows
so skillfully cut by William’s swiping sword.
Thus trapped, the tortured troops of Harold stand,
eternally caught in conflict with the Conqueror.
Driving to a conference today, we were held up in the Sussex town of Battle…
(11.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I have been made complete, moulded by my maker.
I am an image bearer, bearing his image in my body.
With care my character will carry his within it;
reflecting the family face in my visage,
his will and wants within my walk.
But man is not the mirrored, only the mirror;
I must not imagine I am him,
for in imagining this I become an idol.
For I am not complete unless I live in him
for only in his affection can I finally find my home.
As local ministers we meet once a month to reflect together on a book. We’ve started with ‘The Unhurried Pastor’ by Brian Croft and Ronnie Martin, and our conversation today about being limited beings, who find completion in him and his provision, led to this alliterative verse.
(03.02.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Laurenz Kleinheider on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 