Poem 518 – Boundary Market

A cacophony of smells assaults me,
seducing me with savoury scents.
Fresh cheeses pair with delicate herbs,
sitting by artisan breads and rolls.
Pies with flavours strange and familiar,
entice in rows of crisp gold cases.
Strawberries sell by cups or punnet,
(chocolate sauce is optional).
A brazen rainbow envelops me,
its racks of exotic, colourful fruits
transport me to a foreign land.
Within these streets life is compressed,
our bodies densely stirred together,
a heady cocktail of taste and language.

We were in London today for a show at The Globe today. Arriving early we wandered over to Borough Market, a first time for me.
(17.05.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Taylor Keeran on Unsplash

Poem 435 – The Other London

Beneath these streets another London lurks
that secretly exerts its influence.
This realm is not inhabited by fae,
some Neverwhere or Long London, but born
of flesh and blood, the footsteps walked before us.

Laid in a myriad of layers, its culture
manipulates our lives, its stretching fingers,
reaching through our paths, our clothes and speech,
are inescapable, a net ensnaring
this famed landscape both for its good or ill.

I’m currently reading Alan Moore’s ‘The Great When’ – what a terrific book it is, in the great tradition of urban fantasy like Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ and Clarke’s ‘Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell’. Strip away the fantasy, and I suspect these readings aren’t so far from reality.
(22.02.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Benjamin Davies on Unsplash

Poem 285 – Haunted London

Squint and you’ll see them loiter.
Walk these streets and listen.
Stop. Do not rush on by.

Amongst the tower blocks
the shades of London past
live on. Their ghosts haunt us.

Observe attentively
As first a wall appears,
And then facades and plaques.

Street names, spectres, pointing
To past possession, occupations
And entertainment of old.

Hidden beneath the pavement
The ancient rivers meander,
Living memories.

They whisper stories, as
They wash on by, depositing
Time’s flotsam in their wake.

Scavenging mudlarks scour
The Thames, whilst Wren
Designs the city skyline.

Queen Liz sits on the throne,
As Dickens walks the slums,
And Shakespeare stalks the Globe.

Today these shade still walk
Amidst harried commuters
And trigger happy tourists.

Walking home from a show at The Globe today I was struck once more at the many layers of our capital.
(07.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 258 – Banksy’s Cat

Crowds gather
Traffic slows
Police pace
Tension grows
Excited chatter
Selfies shown
Meaning pondered
Headlines flow

Oblivious to it all
Our feline stretches
And wanders off

Yesterday we visited his latest in a series of animal themed street art pieces in London, this time Cricklewood
(11.08.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 191 – The London 100

The Day Before:
I gather in myself,
my words, my thoughts, perception,
a quiet preparation.

The Morning – 4:15am:
This is no time to rise!
I hope adrenaline
will see me through. I dress.

The Wait:
We merge. A lycra clad
invasion forms a swarm,
then pauses, shivers, tense.

The Ride:
Released, a whirring horde, we fly unstoppable.
A churning, hungry tide, we flow through streets as one
– today, for once, they’re ours. Devouring tarmac miles
we weave through concrete towers and flyovers
until
            it’s gone, replaced by green relief.
We smile. The peloton is calmed, discovers peace.
We find our rhythm, settle in and settle down,
a steady cadence. Miles countdown through Epping’s trees,
and Essex fields. Pass picturesque hamlets that predate
the bicycle. Cheers accompany our carefree conversation.
Traverse Great Dunmow, Felsted, Writtle, Ongar, Chigwell
before
            aggressive city walls rear over us once more.
The sun’s fierce rays pummel us, bouncing off the road.
Remorseless, it bullies us, no shade to calm it’s edge.
My head begins to throb, it’s rhythm dissonant,
conflicting with the cycle of my weary legs.

The Last Leg:
After the drag, we spin.
Momentum carries us
to Tower Bridge. It’s over.

The Finish Line:
Grin for the camera. Stop.
Disturbing halt. Dismount,
with giddy limbs confused.

The Release:
Uncleated shoes create
a new cadence. I shuffle.
Am medalled. Disconnect.

It’s taken a few weeks to put this together to try and capture the experience of riding the Ride London-Essex 100 last month. It was a hypnotic day, long but strangely timeless. I’m definitely up for doing something like it again, as long as I can find a way to stop my head overheating!
(16.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 122 – London Calling

A pigeon coo accompanies the cries,
Of urgent sirens wrestling for attention.
Although distant, their wail reaches across,
To where I sit in Euston’s Tolmers Square.
This serendipity, this place of peace,
A patch of green, affords some small respite.
Chairs rattle as a barman sets his tables,
Outside in preparation for midday.
I catch snatches of conversation from,
Engrossed commuters passing quickly by.
The Tube rumbles below my weary feet,
Whilst up above the whine of hybrid cabs.
No more the peel of oranges and lemons,
But still distinct the cry of London calling.

Today I headed into the capital to meet with colleagues. I arrived early. Exploring the local area, I found one of London’s many peaceful squares to spend a few minutes before heading in.
(29.04.22)

© Ben Quant 2022