Can I be bothered?
The weekend was long
and I’m feeling weary.
But above the swifts
are wheeling still
and I’m put to shame.
Perhaps I ought
to rouse myself…
Maybe tomorrow.
Yesterday I had a five hour drive back from near Exeter and today is hot. You almost got a haiku…
(06.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Celestial showoffs,
the swifts swerve in
ecstatic rapture
and sweeping joy.
In unison
they tumble, turning
in the throes of triumph
and shrilling hope.
(05.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Some people are larger than life.
They stride the planet, making
our lives a little bigger.
Knowing them enriches us,
and when they leave somehow
the world is a little less.
Goodbye Pam, thank you.
(02.07.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
In the beginning, the end.
The trunk lies prone across
the damp, green undergrowth,
a wetland’s edge, a world
of moss and earthy smells.
Before too long its reach
is breached, invaded by
a myriad of hopeful life
that creeps across its skin
and digs within its folds.
Roots tenderly caress
and insects penetrate –
integrity decays
as one becomes the whole and
the whole absorbs the one.
This union births a realm,
a bloom of life, and thus
the end becomes the beginning.
On our walk this afternoon we passed a tree that had been felled and deliberately let to rot and feed the life of a local patch of wetland.
(01.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Ivy Kleban on Unsplash
A delicate beauty,
This life is prone and fragile.
Like sheets of golden leaf it’s
Capable of invoking awe
Before crumbling under
The weight of our passing breath.
Caring for my parents has reminded me of the preciousness and fragility of life.
(20.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash
Amidst the chaos there lies a line.
It weaves a way, a golden thread
of grace, not chalk or string, through life’s
varied and unpredictable maze.
A fragile thing, at first it seems
too fine, invisible and prone,
and yet, persistent, it somehow snakes
through life’s ragged ups and downs.
A golden thread that is not precious,
that rolls up its well worn sleeves,
knows life in all its care and messiness,
that dares to tread the dangerous street.
It does not force, or bend, or break,
it simply finds a way for feet to trace
when eyes are dark, imagination
spent. This path is known as love.
It’s been a week of trying to find a way through some tricky pastoral situations.
(09.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vasilica Ciocan on Unsplash
Other things matter
Poetry must stand aside
Until tomorrow
A poetic placeholder.
(07.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jill Heyer on Unsplash
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
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)
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
Ode for the Day 