The perfect V, they swam
across the lake towards
our luring hands, for food.
Two adults and their scruffy
signet, a few months old.
Still brown, inquisitive,
its newborn down beginning
to be replaced for flight.
Noisily they slurp the
water where we scattered
the pellets, hissing for more.
Watching their perfect forms
I wondered how one could
be seen as ugly or
confused with a duckling at all.
An afternoon stroll walking by the lakes along Lea Valley to visit our old friends and one new…
(18.08.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Lea Valley
Poem 232 – Winter Morning’s Ride
It’s dark, and as I mount my saddle to
ride out, my limbs are stiff and unresponsive.
The dawning sun perches upon the valley
hill-line and casts its weary eye abroad.
Below it, ripples catch alight and burn
in contrast to their frost-drained surroundings.
The cold inveigles itself uninvited,
kicks off its shoes, and squats amongst my bones.
My muscles clench like bailiffs, but they fail
in their eviction efforts. It persists.
As fingers burn there is no choice but to
stoically press on in imitation.
At home, the heat violently awakes me.
It has been a bitterly cold week, in which I have been out a number of times on my bike. Although the surroundings are beautiful, it hurts.
(18.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Poem 231 – Opening Act
Serial splashes mark dog walkers passing.
One whooping swan flies overhead alone;
its powerful wings, outstretched and proud,
propel with purpose. I wonder at its passing.
The weary winter sun ascends reluctant
from its cloudy bed, as do commuters,
cocooned within their padded hats and coats.
The lake sits, an empty stage awaiting the
entry of its residents, as does the day,
whose curtains open up before me.
This was written after accompanying my son on his morning ride to catch the commuter train to work.
(09.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2023
Original photo by Allie Reefer on Unsplash
Poem 202 – A What3Words Haiku
Temperature plummets
and so whimsical winter
makes.poetic.snows
This was actually written way back before ‘Poem 1‘, but using what3words to locate my car and tent at Greenbelt reminded me of it. The gates and signposts in Lea Valley have what3words identifiers on them to help locate them. One not far from us is the magical ‘makes.poetic.snows‘. This was begging to be put in verse (but hopefully not into practice, not too soon anyway…)
(01.09.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Jessica Fadel on Unsplash
Poem 193 – A River Dreams
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
Poem 180 – Riverbank Sketches: The Great Crested Grebe
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
Poem 179 – Riverbank Sketches III: The Heron
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
Poem 178 – Riverbank Sketches II: The Coot
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
Poem 176 – Riverbank Sketches I: The Cormorant
He holds his head up high
to look down upon us.
His curled haughty lips
suggest amusement.
I doubt he’s ever glimpsed
his own reflection in
the ripples – unless his smirk
disguises self-denial.
The cormorant’s smile caught my attention as we walked along the Lea yesterday. I’ve grown to love these comical birds, so graceful in the water, yet so clumsy looking in the air or on the bank wings outstretched to dry.
(24.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by JJ Harrison licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license
Poem 175 – Soundscape
The wind’s white noise cannons against my ears
along with percussive rattling of jostling trees.
A distant car alarm melds with an avian
sentry, sounding an urgent, shrill reveille.
The muffled sound of barking blends into
the lapping of the usually languid Lea.
Astride their balance bikes, delighted children
point out serendipitous discoveries.
A blowy day for a lunchtime stroll by the River Lea.
(24.03.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Ode for the Day 
