Nature

Poem 656 – Character Forming

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Cut through time to take a look,
examine me under the microscope,
assess my passage from the start,
the journey taken, years of growth.

Like rings within an ancient tree
revealed in hindsight by the axe,
or brickwork courses growing taller,
each one stacking on the last.

Or painted walls, each layer giving
deeper colour, gaining richness,
our lives mature, as we grow older,
building on their early promise.

Look carefully, see the DNA,
the chemical chains that snake through years,
parental nurture shaping outlook
the constraints of our family tree.

The trail is present from our birth,
outcome foreshadowed from the start,
our final face beneath the first,
foundations shaping who we are.

A combination of decorating and a nostalgic trip through our children’s school records, led me to reflect upon how much of who we become is present in who we were.
(13.08.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Joel & Jasmin Førestbird on Unsplash

Poem 604 – Reynard’s Children

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Two pairs of black tipped ears peak over
the sun-bleached grass. Alert they twitch,
then gallop, gambol, giddily roll,
over and over, intoxicated.

This frenzy of rolling frollicking ends
a heap of writhing rusty yelps.
Beneath lies Reynard, dutifully watching,
made weary by new life’s first breaths.

The highlight of today? Two handsome fox cubs playing in the garden.
(23.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Poem 590- New River Arms Reborn

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A rotting ruin, the old pub stood abandoned,
the juke box quiet, regulars forgotten,
its skeleton a ghostly shell left stranded.
As weeds burst through clay tiles and chimney pots
it seemed as if this plot had no more planned
than this, but mother nature had allotted
her resources, and soon this dead corpse breathed
again with saplings, lake and thriving reeds.

The site of a former local pub is being transformed as nature has its way.
(09.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 588 – No Mow May Revisited

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My mower has not seen the light of day
since April, the last time that the grass was trimmed,
and in its absence life’s had chance to play.
One look, you might decide the scene is grim,
but keep an open mind, once more survey –
the land’s awake to nature’s joyful hymn:
goldfinches seeking seeds as crickets sing,
and dandies dance before the bats take wing.

I thought I’d try a poem with an ottava rima rhyming form today (abababcc), and having been in the garden beforehand, this tumbled out.
(07.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Andrea Lightfoot 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 496 – Morning Invasion

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The rising sun invades through sycamore branches,
its spotlight picking out a lonely snail,
bedecked in stark contrasting coloured spirals.
The Sun’s dazzling white enlivens grenades
of glass dropped onto the lawn’s lengthening stalks.
Spider zip wires, momentarily made visible,
transverse, fragile yet strong, will shortly vanish.
A gang of boisterous sparrows playing tag
fill me with delight as they shout and switch.
Soon they’ll wake the flowers, who somehow slumber
oblivious to this squadron’s raucous games.
This fleeting action is invigorating.
I drink it deeply, let it permeate,
and pray it will sustain me through the day.

A snapshot through the window this morning as I ate my breakfast. Reading Robert MacFarlane’s introduction to Nan Shepherd’s ‘The Living Mountain’, I’ve been encouraged to look deeper at my surrounds.
(25.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Önder Andinç on Unsplash

Poem 490 – A Royal Welcome

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Today we walk as royalty on our way,
Illuminated by the chestnuts’ light.
Above, a buzzard monitors the crowd
Of rapeseed, waving yellow flags in joy.
A chiffchaff serenades us with a song and
Summer’s first swift performs its daring flypast.

Our daughter’s home for the weekend, so we thought we’d repeat the first leg of the Hertfordshire Chain Walk with her.
(19.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 483 – The Birds Have Spoken

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This year I got in early
and started ‘No Mow May’ in
January. Now the grass
is tufty and embedded
with dandelion splashes.
It might not win awards
or have those tasteful stripes,
but the birds all seem to love it
and that’s a prize to me.

As spring erupts, our garden’s come to life. First thing the lawn’s awash with birds, pecking for food and heating material.
(12.04.25)

© Ben Quant 2025

Poem 452 – Man vs. Garden

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Today I’ve been pruning a bush.
That is an understatement.

I’ve been chopping up remains
of vast swathes of branches culled
from overgrown hedges and bushes
and dumping them in our bin.

It’s been a battle, one man
with secateurs versus
Mother Nature gone wild.
Mother Nature is winning.

Eventually, Mother Nature
always finds a way,
but meanwhile, here I am,
trying to tame her excess.

Each piece recalls the past,
each snip a season gone,
and as the wheelie bin is
filled with trimmings, time flies.

Today I’ve been being pruned,
my sense of self stripped back,
perspective re-established,
the brambles will be back.

With winter gradually receding, I’ve been trying in vain to maintain garden order…
(12.03.25)

© Ben Quant 2025