Life

Journey’s End

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They say that life’s a journey, a pilgrimage
traversing the twists and turns fate throws at us.
Along the way our paths cross those of others,
and for a while we stroll in company.

These correspondences may be a time
of idle pleasure beneath the sun, strolling
along green ways and happy days of laughter,
with packs that are light and limbs both free and easy.

But other times the road inclines and rocks
and scree make traveling hard and insecure.
These days perhaps the laughter stops and talk
dies down, but still you stumble on together.

But when at last you find the chance to pause
and look back down the way you walked, maybe
you’ll realise the stories made, not told
(like Chaucer), are the journey’s point and treasure.

I spent tonight with friends who worked on the Winter Night Shelter project here, and it’s evolved continued support for homeless folk. An enjoyable evening reminiscing and remembering what we achieved together.
(02.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Toomas Tartes on Unsplash

Poem 713 – The Tree of Life

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Opening your cover, I fall
into your leaves, cavort
within your canopy.

Peering from high pages
I penetrate horizons,
unveiling fresh perspectives.

I gasp for breath, my mouth
gapes as I drink them in.
I feel my glossary grin.

Amongst your paragraphs,
I find so many marvels
I’m made drunk and giddy.

In time, I turn to find
your spine, your trunk, that holds
these fruitful words together.

Downwards, I trace its bark,
descend its lines, to delve
the deep, dark earth’s embrace.

Following your fingers,
I find forgotten facts
indexed amongst fine roots.

Young sentences disperse,
spinning sycamore wings.

My entry for the poetry competition held by Hertfordshire Libraries this year to celebrate their 100 anniversary. The competition required submissions that were 100 words long.
(09.10.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Poem 631 – Life Abounds!

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It’s time to tame the lawn, to mow the meadow.
Spring’s growth is done, the flowers’ beauty faded,
and all that are left are dry and browning stalks.

I venture out, the mower pushed before me,
and suddenly what’s dead springs back to life;
a thousand hidden grasshoppers leaping skywards.

The river bursts its banks and overflows,
spilling forth, a rushing roiling flow
of boiling, bubbling, exuberance let loose.

For a moment I feel lost among the waves,
I’m all at sea, but gradually the turmoil
fades and I finally find my way again.

‘No Mow May’ slipped into ‘Let It Bloom June’ and found it’s way into July, but finally I needed to reclaim the lawn. Mowing revealed just how much life had taken up residence in the meantime.
(20.07.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ngan Nguyen on Unsplash

Poem 573 – Celebrating Life

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On your marks…. Go!
So off we went, a drumming
river flowing round
the field in endless circles.

Some formed gentle eddies,
whilst others became torrents,
crashing waters surging
forwards with urgency.

Let’s run with zest the Head
had said and so we did,
with cheers and tears and joy,
remembering why we ran.

We poured until our muscles
ached and lungs were spent,
then flung ourselves upon
the shore in celebration.

I joined a local primary school for their annual run to remember a further student who sadly passed away. As always the pupils and community were great.
(23.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Mina Rad on Unsplash

Poem 516 – The Race of Life

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Like Race Around the World,
we’re traveling through life,
adopting different speeds,
and taking different routes.
Each life that’s lived’s unique,
a one off gift of time,
blending both choice and chance,
making us who we are.
The victory I’ve found
is not in these but those;
in those with whom I’ve travelled,
and those I’ve loved and served.

Tonight Alpha met Race Around the World.
(15.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nejc Soklič on Unsplash

Poem 511 – The Living River

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Is this river alive?
I think so. She flows
along our valley birthing
life where e’er she goes:
the hazy clouds of flies
that flock this time of year,
the clacking coots upon
comical towering nests,
the dragonflies that briefly dart
by deer that stalk its edges.
Small fish flick within her
currents, whilst willows lean
admiring her fine looks.
Some days she dresses down
in sombre darkened brown,
in winter black and white,
but today the sun is out,
it’s time for brighter colours.
She is our giving mother
nurturing our valley
with her languid love
and flowing tender tears,
and whilst she does she sings
her lapping melody.
This river is alive,
of that there is no doubt.

I’ve been listening to the BBC’s adaptation of Robert MacFarlane’s ‘Is A River Alive?’ Living next to the River Lee (or Lea), I find it easy to grasp what he means.
(10.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 463 – ‘Hannibal’ Moments

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Remember those sliding puddles?
I had one as a child. Too many
hours spent moving numbers back
and forth to get them all in order.
The temptation to prize them out
with a screwdriver was always present…

Often life can seem like that;
sliding a piece into the right
place causes others to drop out.
Occasionally, however, there are wonderful
A-Team moments when everything falls
into place and the plan comes together!

I’ve been fighting with the mix for the livestream of our services. Getting everything balanced and at the right volume has been a constant challenge. Today, however, it all dropped into place.
(23.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Image Micha L. Rieser, used with permission

Poem 442 – Life Cycles

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Past.
The tree drank deeply of the earth’s dark soil,
its roots absorbing water from secret distant pools.
Stretching its wooden limbs it reached out branches,
all striving for the shining sun’s bright rays.
From sapling to its full grown majesty
it slowly grew, unfurling limbs then leaves.

Present.
This table’s dead; no sap or life flow here.
Its extendable leaves now lie in twisted pieces;
they’re warped by age and wear and wrenched by boots.
Redundant, I throw the separated branches
into the boot to drive it to the dump,
hurling them into the designated coffin.

Future.
The future is as yet uncarved, unknown.
Will it be pulped, transformed to card or paper?
Or maybe mulched, returning nutrients
back to the earth to nourish future roots?
Out of its greatness, greatness may return;
as earth to earth, from death comes life again.

From and afternoon spent taking old and broken furniture to the local ‘dump’ (recycling centre), sprang thoughts about the cycle of life.
(02.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

Poem 357 – The End

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Opening the covers,
the end seemed far away,
but now the pages turn
more quickly; the epilogue
is closer than the start.

I long to read your lines
more deeply, to understand
their meaning and import,
so that our entwining lives
may be mutually enriched.

When all is said and done,
when the story has been told,
let it be known that I’ve
known love and fully loved,
for love’s our one true end.

Following on from yesterday’s poem and The Cure’s latest album.
‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love’ (1 Corinthians 13:13).
(18.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Mr Xerty on Unsplash