These faded flags, hang limp and tattered,
Shrouds of a spiteful spectres’ howl.
Ironically red, white and blue
Become as one, sun burnt and drained.
Their dream has passed, I pray, perhaps
A better Britain born. Let them
Be left, forlorn like silenced statues,
Their rage replaced with a greater grace.
The avenues of Union Flags, once proud, now seem forgotten and apologetic in the breeze.
(28.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Today is timid, a tender movement,
But in its whispered silence sounds
The echo of a crack. Cautious we
We walk amongst the mighty trees
And see a battered bough. Now bent,
It rests its unearthed roots ripped high.
We stop and stand, staying awhile,
To mourn before this fallen friend.
Today we took a walk through Lee Valley. The storms of the last couple of days have quietened, but everything feels tense in case the winds return.
(25.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Whilst others fought for female freedom,
You took to flight triumphantly,
To prove the point that at a distance,
Male and female merge as one.
And whilst they search for signs of life,
Once lived then lost in dire disaster,
I like to think you rose above,
Our righteous world and flew beyond.
Lost in action, Amelia Earhart,
Famous female aviator.
Inspired by the hunt for Amelia Earhart after possible photographic evidence of her missing plane.
(18.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Smithsonian on Unsplash
Here angular arches stand, these ancient stones
That strive and stretch. Bare rock; arms steep and tall;
Grey faces faded; stained hard features smoothed
By time and tears. We softly talk then pause.
Eternal echoes ache and throb in endless
Coils that wrap around as gravity tolls
And eras interweave and inward fall.
Here all is altogether and one is all.
I’m currently reading Fiona Robertson’s ‘Stone Lands’ that explores the prehistoric monuments that stand scattered across our nation. I’ve always found such sites strangely magnetic and dense, as if they’re pins that pierce across the ages.
(17.10.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Carefully carved behind concealing doors,
This key was kept in secret, kept for mischief.
What plots and plans was it purposed for?
What jokes and japes contrived and journeys made?
These stories still remain safely hidden,
Locked and lost to time and left unspoken.
Visited a former lunatic asylum this afternoon as part of heritage open day. The keys in this display caught my attention.
(19.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
I find
I find myself
I find myself feeding
I find myself feeding frogs
I find myself feeding frogs with my fingers
And I fear they fink my fingers are the food!
They’re not the brightest of creatures…
(14.09.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
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
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
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
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
