Autumn

Poem 1023 – Lost

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Autumn is nowhere to be found.
It was here last year, but looking for
it now it seems to have been misplaced.
I wonder, have you seen it?

Where are the gold and red of gently
transitioning leaves upon the breeze?
The lingering chill that leaves us reaching
for our warmer clothes?

The nights are drawing in it’s true,
but the only brown is that of sun-
burnt vegetation and bare ground,
the earth’s become quite tanned.

I worry that we’ll wake one day
to find we’ve skipped a beat and all
is crispy white – or will we find
that Winter’s missing too…

An ‘autumn’ walk in Lee Valley today but it seemed nothing of the sort.
(03.10.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Srini Somanchi on Unsplash

Poem 687 – Summer’s Passing

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The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’

By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

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 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 661 – The Nottingham Coast

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This gentle green descends towards the horizon
which laps around its edge in waves of cloud.
Surprisingly, the playful sun is out, its
autumnal heat washes over us,
awakening birds that shriek in joyful play.
We walk, my father and I, along the hedgerows
reaching like groynes into the fields, alert
to fungi, berries and other harvest gifts.
Strolling along this Nottingham coast we let
it roll over our toes with grateful thanks.

Dad and I went for a delightful walk in the Nottingham countryside today, regretting in the surprisingly summer-like weather.
(06.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ries Bosch on Unsplash

Poem 626 – Turning

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And just like that the shorts have gone away,
the evening dimmed a little earlier.
Dandelions no longer cheer the lawn
now thoughts have turned to autumn.

The summer has been carefully folded up,
and stored in crates of happy memory.
Its carefree days of sun and play will now
only be opened from time to teasing time.

And in the mirror in the store I caught
a passing glimpse of changing seasons,
a hint of what has been, is now, and is
still yet to be, thus turning thoughts to autumn.

The seasons are turning as the schools begin to return.
(01.09.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Matt on Unsplash

Poem 329 – Until

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The dying light briefly tinges treetops
with a bronze flourish, a terracotta tone,
suggestive of the summer past. Catching
the yellow leaves, it hints of a reprieve.

It is, however, only momentary,
a briefest farewell kiss before departure,
a passing gesture to sustain us through
the coming darkness, until Spring’s dawn.

Looking out of my window this evening, the sky turned the objects a slightly otherworldly colour tonight, just before darkness descended. A companion piece to yesterday’s poem.
(20.10.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Uta Scholl on Unsplash