‘Ne’er cast a clout
’till May is out’
… but what’s that sound?
the rain pouring down!
But fortunately, I had my a new mac with me…
(03.06.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Alex Dukhanov on Unsplash
Weather
Poem 477 – Mother Sun
The newborn sunshine warms the sleeping foal.
With winter’s labour done, its early rays
accompany the horse’s early breaths.
Lying content and totally at peace
its chest rises and falls, filling with life
under its constant mother’s patient gaze.
This afternoon we took a walk across the River Lea, and stumbled across the site of a new born foal sleeping under the early spring sun.
(06.04.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 465 – An Avian Revival
We sit outside, enjoying Spring’s fresh sun,
sharing a cup of tea and conversation.
The heavens’ freshness is invigorating,
shining light into wearied Winter limbs.
We aren’t the only ones awakened by
the afternoon’s blue opportunity;
the sky swells with ranks of choristers,
alert, their chests puffed out with jubilant song.
Performing bass, the racket of the rooks erupts,
joining the tree-born tenor pigeons’ coos.
Insistent great tits drill their alto beats, as
greenfinch glissandos trill in soprano splendour.
At the finale’s final flourish we file
out of the garden, aware that we’ve been treated
by a most marvellous rendition of this
anarchic avian anthem. We applaud.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat outside with my parents, ensuring the weather and the glorious birdsong.
(25.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Svetozar Cenisev on Unsplash
Poem 446 – Rising
The sun rises, and with it rise our spirits,
its warmth begins to thaw our dormant souls.
Woken from their winter hibernation,
emerging smiles begin to bud then flower.
Above the bird song swells in volume and richness,
and here below our voices respond in kind.
Funny how all it takes to wash away
the blues are blue skies, blazing with glorious gold.
This week, Spring has sprung.
(06.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Poem 393 – Jack’s World
Yesterday, upon our wooden gatepost,
the frost created miniature white forests
of crystalline columns. How I longed to walk
beneath their delicate icy canopy,
and folic under its frozen leaves and branches.
What winter creatures made their habitat
amongst these glassy pillars and nested there?
Who crawled amongst its sugary undergrowth,
and hid within the dusting of white detritus?
Alas, so many mysteries remain unfound,
now dissipating beneath the rising sun.
Waiting for a lift yesterday morning, I spied a hidden world.
(12.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Yuri Antonenko on Unsplash
Poem 387 – Wet Trousers
The alarm went off this morning.
Outside it was dark, so dark,
I didn’t want to rise,
but had before I knew it.
I left the car at the garage.
Cycling was cold, so cold,
the tide mark rising up
dull chromatography.
The phone rang in the rain.
The call was hard, so hard.
May God’s peace match the puddles
permeating my pockets.
Once home I peeled the layers.
They’re dripping wet, so wet.
The garage rings, it’s ready –
I put them on again…
I had to take our car to the garage first things for it’s annual service. The snow and ice may have gone, but the weather was miserable. I still feel wet. The good news, however, was that there were no issues with the car at all.
(06.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nicola Anderson on Unsplash
Poem 384 – Two Worlds
This lazy January morning,
we rise to the golden glow
of the winter sun, as it settles
on curtained window panes.
Descending, we duck down
beneath the glowing gaze,
and enter a monochrome realm,
a kingdom of black and white.
Beyond the kitchen’s heat,
the world divides between
two lawns of white and green
demarked by shadow fall.
Upon the glass retreat
ancient fingers of intricate
silver, etched in frosted
detail, delicate yet harsh.
It is the time of year when the sun can shine but has no heat. The last few days have been drab, overcast and misty keeping some warmth, but today these cleared…
(03.01.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash
Poem 376 – Darragh Joins Strictly
In bed, Storm Darragh wakes me
Blustering down the chimney
Rattling window panes, and
Disturbing creaky doors
I picture leaves outside,
Spinning, like tossed salad,
Awakened with a dousing
Of nocturnally sprinkled rain.
Is that the sound of waltzing
Wheelie bins joining plastic
Bags in promenading
Gracefully around the lawn?
I worry walls might join
The dance, with flirting fence
panels. rockin’ and rollin’
To the rhythm with wild abandon
And as the show crescendos,
Car sirens sound in rapture
And trees applaud, their branches
Bowed in adoration.
It was a noisy night last night! Thankfully, all was ok when the morning came.
(06.12.24)
Poem 316 – Raindrops
Bulbous bombs of water
explode on contact with
the ground, or windows, or clothes.
Penetrating cover
and piercing any armour,
they always find a way.
Skin momentarily holds them,
keeps them back, but in
the end even this is
futile and our bodies
become infiltrated.
It’s raining outside. We have a leak at church.
(08.10.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Eutah Mizushima on Unsplash
Poem 286 – Last Night I Did Not Sleep
Last night the skies were ripped to shreds,
Torn open again and again and again,
Revealing unveiled fires ablaze.
Last night the skies were violently battered,
As if they were doors in a surprise dawn raid,
Full of warning shouts that shocked and deafened.
Last night the skies were permeated,
Hydrated with a thousand tears.
Overcome, they let them go.
This morning?
All is still…
Last night we were treated to an elemental display of power.
(08.09.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 