We suddenly became aware of
his lonesome presence not far away.
Perfectly still, he perched mere metres
from where we sat behind the glass.
He gazed disdainfully at us through
his alien eyes, dismissing us,
before, with a casual flick of his feathers,
launching himself from the plum tree branch.
We had an unexpected visitor in the garden the other day.
(20.12.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo Muséum de Toulouse, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Seeking solace in numbers, they flock together,
Perched on the edge of clefts and aisles and chairs,
Whilst down below their mates peck through the clothes.
Though close, they never acknowledge each other’s presence,
Except perhaps a brief shared nod between them,
In recognition of their mutual plight.
And as each female emerges to the flock,
They twitter, preening hair, and staking claims,
Puffing their chests and hoping that she’s theirs.
There’s always great people watching to be had in shopping centres…
(28.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Denver Saldanha on Unsplash
The sky is wakened
by the urgent chatter
of sparrows bouncing
back and forth.
I can only see a few
but their chorus fills
my morning ears
and stirs me from
my slumbers.
They loiter in the bushes,
kicking cans and
and smoking joints, but
these avian urchins,
these hedgerow ragamuffins,
these cheeky chappies,
are anything but common
– they are the heralds
of the morn!
Pouring my morning cup of tea today, the air was suddenly
filled with the sound of sparrows singing; rowdy but beautiful.
(10.05.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jacques LE HENAFF on Unsplash
Walking amidst the trees I hear:
blackcaps and great tits, chiffchaffs and wrens,
weaving a three dimensional tapestry.
Confined, the blackbird’s song frees me,
widens my perception, whilst the goldfinch
grants me wings amongst the leaves.
Picking out particular voices,
the choir starts to swell and I’m
enrapt by their musicality.
Recently I’ve been trying to learn to recognise and name birdsong. With the help of a phone app, this has opened my awareness to the choir around me. What was generic birdsong has become the glorious conversation of a varied throng of birds: an ear for the particular has enriched the appreciation of the whole.
(30.04.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Andrea Lightfoot on Unsplash
The subtle scent of freshly woken grass
and crispness of the sky arrest me as
the door is opened on the dawning day.
Sparrows, already up, are catching the
proverbial early worm and the morning’s gossip;
the air is thickened with excited chatter.
Jostling students join them, calling out
greetings to newcomers in their growing flock.
I remember being in their number.
But now is not for melancholy thoughts or
nostalgic longing for carefree childhood days.
I wave goodbye to my departing wife
and note the soft cool air that curls around
my naked ankles; I’m still in my pajamas,
time to wash the night away and dress.
Cat Stevens comes to mind and Etch-a-Sketch
where with one swipe the old is wiped away
and the new is ushered in.
The smell of dew dampened grass greeted me as my wife left for work this morning, bringing with it the fading refrain of Morning Has Broken sung at a recent funeral.
(18.04.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Sergio Otoya on Unsplash
Catching up on poems from the last few days…
A little weary, out of rhythm,
we rise to scattered festive relics.
An anecdote is told about
a former poet laureate.
Required walking to clear our heads
and settled Christmas lethargy.
We stop to feed Egyptian and Canadian
geese and opportunistic pigeons.
Back home it’s time for lunch, comprised of
yesterday’s offcuts before
a most unexpected reprise,
“You know that story? I missed a line,
‘I woke besides the ugliest woman…'”
A true story…
(26.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
The Lea meanders, ambles on her course,
and in her brooding sleep she meditates.
Above, along, aside, reflections rise,
a flock of dreams, take wing and, graceful, flies:
Cormorant, cuckoo, coot, moorhen,
great crested and cousin little grebe.
Black headed gull, common gull, common tern,
reed and sedge warbler, grey wagtail.
Egyptian goose, greylag goose, Canada goose,
grey heron and little egret.
Mallard, wigeon, goldeneye, goosander, gadwall,
silver wood, shoveler, teal and tufted ducks.
Hobby, buzzard, red kite, kestrel,
sparrowhawk, barn owl, little owl.
Great spotted and green woodpeckers,
allusive kingfisher, bashful bittern.
As a child I dreamt of reaching high
until the sunrise pulled me to and moored me.
Detached, released, unlike that earthbound son
her dreamborn flights of fantasy soar freely.
Yesterday I finished reading Robert MacFarlane’s magnificent prose poem Ness. This, and the lists found in other writings of his, inspired this, as of course do our many sightings as we have walked alongside our neighbour, the slumbering Lea. The photo is of an adult cormorant I managed to snap in 2019: a favourite bird, comical, haughty and surprisingly graceful.
(29.06.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
With oriental flare,
the grebe attracts attention.
Her sublime looks and slender
lines are carefully honed.
Exotic, not like other birds,
she owns her stage.
Checking all eyes are on
her, paparazzi ready,
she poses
to applause.
I don’t get to see these so often as other birds, but always appreciate them when I do. So distinct, they demand attention.
(30.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Bengt Nyman, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Stood by his office window, the silent
partner waits, serene and straight.
Beneath his greying brows, two keen
and wizened eyes, gaze out.
He waits. And waits. And waits. Until
incisively he strikes; a single
dart with ballet dancer poise.
Replete, he struts away.
So often we almost walk past these ‘old men’ of the river without noticing they’re there. Such graceful birds.
(29.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
New born, an angry punk
with shaven head, bright red,
shrill, urgent and demanding.
Nearby the parent swims.
Respectability
acquired, grown-up, it hides its
defiant past beneath
a comic exterior
of bloated feet and drab
commuter dress of black
and white.
But stray too close and watch
the rebel wake. With gun
fire spray of clacking beak
and furied charge across
the water, this crazy street
fighter fights mean not clean,
the threats soon flee now fly.
Behind with arms aloft
it cries its battle cry,
uncouth obscenities
of bloody consequence
should you once more defy
its patch. Return? You’ll die…
The violence is only momentary,
the furious flapping soon fades,
replaced by a tentative cease-fire.
With peace restored you might
reflect the scene just seen
was more a case of Benny
Hill than Al Capone.
But my advice is keep
this to yourself. She’s watching you.
I’ve always enjoyed looking out for coffee since reading Arthur Ransom’s ‘Coot Club’. Living here, I’ve really got to know them, watching their life cycles and displays thoroughout the year. Bonkers and loveable.
(28.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Charles J. Sharp, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Ode for the Day 