Alliterative Verse

Poem 963 – Lost in Hunstanton

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Above, burnt ochre buildings line the streets.
Pensioners potter along the prom, wistfully
wishing for what’s been gradually washed away.

Below, a lonely pigeon looks across the
littered shell fragments lying lost to time
and tide, as trickling memory takes and steals.

Beyond, a rusting wreck decays. Wrapped in seaweed ribbons it rests and dreams of rites
of passage past and present and yet to come.

We spent a lovely day today wandering around Old Hunstanton, and as we wandered various lines began to coalesce.
(05.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 956 – At The List

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Knights lift their lances and charge enlivened by
the fight for fame or chance of lady’s favour.
At the heft of hooves pounding so heavily,
the crowds start crying, eager to crown a champion.
Baying for blood, like hounds they bite and snarl
at one and will the other to win with ease,
but, fickle friends, they switch to favour those
they believe most likely to end up leaving king!

We visited Warwick Castle today and enjoyed the dramatic sights and sounds of their jousting knights. A quick poem at the end of a long hot day.
(29.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 952 – Evening Walk

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A lazy walk along the River Lee.
Passing pink clouds dissipate and fade in
transitory trails, the evening’s tiring sun.
The air is empty, no birds announce their presence.
All is still. Responding we stroll in whispers.

A quiet walk at the end of another busy day.
(25.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 836 – Holy Monday

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In deft defiance, an act of holy disorder,
The tables are turned within the Temple Courts,
And many moneychangers made to moan.

An act of targeted terrorism or
The perfect protest made to pillory
The priests’ hypocrisy in oppressing the poor.

In judgement Jesus stands for the Gentiles, calling
For peace and prayer, not spiteful separation,
Aiming his anger at their acts of partition.

Today is Holy Monday, the day that Christians traditionally remember Jesus’ protest in the Temple.
(30.03.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Anton Mislawsky on Unsplash

Poem 801 – Four Years

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Four years of yearning, of young men sent to war,
since tanks on tracks raised trouble in the streets
and reason ran away as they rolled in.
Of mighty men who make games of all our lives,
who push people like pawns upon chess boards,
greedily grabbing land for their own gain.
Of tears that tear a track down mothers’ cheeks
and bombs that blow their boys to smithereens
and drones that down their unborn naive dreams.

On 24 February 2022 Russian forces entered the Ukraine marking the start of the current phase of the war between them. A poem in alliterative verse seemed an appropriate way to mark it, an ancient style to mark a modern conflict; somethings don’t really change.
(23.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jade Koroliuk on Unsplash

Poem 799 – In Hoc Signo Vinces

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Whilst marching with your men, a mighty vision
rose up in the sky, a sign above the Sun.
Both crisp and clear this vision of the cross
emboldened you, bright burning with the order,
go forth and in hoc signo vinces.

‘Born again’, baptised by Eusebius
and strident with new faith, you set to war
the cross enshrined on shining shields and
having defeated all who fought your fearsome sword, you sit serene upon your throne.

But in your daring did you ever doubt
such conquest by the cross of Christ who sought salvation not by sword but sacrifice?
This man made mighty by humility,
his love will ever stand above your reign.

Outside York Minster sits a statue of Constantine, the Roman Emperor who’s ‘conversation’ led to Christendom, the joining of the power of the state to the church.
(21.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 787 – This Magic Place

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An annual act of anticipation,
Selecting dates for Shakespeare’s stage,
That wooden Globe in which the world,
Is magically made in marvelous ways.

The scent of sawdust tickles my senses,
The sound of sonnets, rousing song,
Hushed silence for soliloquies,
The prayers of people pulled along.

Each night it never fails to win,
Its wistful ways, this wondrous O,
And later on its legacy lingers,
This glistening gold whose tendrils glow.

We’ve been selecting dates for the Globe’s summer season ahead of it going on public sale tomorrow. A favourite place.
(09.02.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 770 – Rest Awhile

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The winding week is done, its work is over
The veiling night draws near, now dim the light
Its time to take account of all its triumphs
And put its problems prayerfully aside

Once ready, rest awhile and rediscover
That peaceful place that every person needs
Recall your core, your heart, your cornerstone
And gladly let the God of grace within

It’s Friday night!
(23.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

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