Wildlife

Poem 291 – Transfigured

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The early morning sun rises at we do,
shivers then casts its rays upon our windows,
revealing in their panes the evidence
of life that has pressed itself against their glass.
These traces sparkle under its caress,
lit up in brilliant white to make us blush.
A delicate weave with downward threads outlined
like the curving paths of stars in timelapse captured.
A smear from Reynard’s tail when jumping the fence.
Paw marks made by a mad squirrel seeing
a rival in his face reflected there.
The outline of a feathered angel captured
transfigured in a momentary pose.
These illuminated memories shine
but briefly; all too soon the spell has passed.

I should be embarrassed by state of our windows, but when the autumn sun shines on them, something beautiful is revealed. (UPDATE: A few have asked me who the Reynard is that appears in a few of my poems. He’s a trickster fox from stories starting in mediaeval times. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reynard_the_Fox)
(13.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Richie Bettencourt on Unsplash

Poem 280 – The Guvnor

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Out of the corner of my eye
I see him scurry across the fence;
a bully who has artfully eased
his predecessors off the patch.

His movement’s confident and cocky,
the urban swagger of one who knows
he’s reached the top of his ‘profession’.
He is the top cat, guvnor, kingpin.

Over his shoulder hangs no weapon
but a bushy tail, his bling,
or status symbol signifying
that he is not too be messed with.

One moment he’s there and then he’s not.
I turn to look but he has vanished,
disarmingly slipped out of my sight.
I scan my surroundings nervously.

It’s not just him that’s disappeared,
it is his stash, ill-gotten gains,
the product of extortion, never
to be seen again till next year.

Somewhere he’s counting out his nuts
stacking then in their ordered piles,
a display intended to underline
that he’s in charge and no one else.

I was sitting this evening wondering what to write about today when I spotted our neighborhood squirrel on the fence…
(02.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Lucia Sorrentino on Unsplash

Poem 209 – River Reynard

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The early morn.
Two foxes sprinting
fluid and fast.
Coursing the street
their game of tag
washes its banks.

4am. I’m up early to catch a plane, walking to the local train station. In my peripheral vision I spot a red blur. Two foxes with more energy than me fly past.
(06.10.23)

© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Wen Zhu on Unsplash

Poem 190 – Outside These Walls

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Unmanicured, my garden dances,
a field of sunlike dandelions,
swaying to a salsa beat.
No doubt my neighbour thinks it’s wild.
It is. This is nature’s rhythm.
It’s raw, untamed, and improvised. Wild-life.
Inside, I ache. Fettered, I wish
to join them but it’s too late and so,
instead, I watch the sparrows flit
between their stalks in freedom songs.

I’m a lazy gardener, and so need little encouragement to join #NoMowMay, in fact I’ve strayed into #NoMowJune (sadly the alliteration isn’t as good…) It turns out that being lazy is good for our barren garden, now it’s full of life.
(07.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023

Poem 130 – The Wood

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Walking beneath the canopy above,
I stop and listen. Slowly I begin,
To hear it breathe, the branches rise and fall,
And in its breeze, translucent leaves make play.

A bee drones past ignoring my intrusion,
Whilst down below the moles dig on unseen
Their earthy mounds the only indication,
Of their lightless subterranean dreams.

A flap and avian caw as something falls,
And ricochets, until the undergrowth,
Receives it with its eager spiky arms,
Concealing it within a dense embrace.

The trees begin to stir, swaying in slow,
Rhythm to a beat that sounds unheard.
Even the elders join their patient dance,
Their ancient limbs cracking as they flex.

A cole tit reassures his youngsters whilst,
He flits around the local bounds, with loud,
Beeping that finds an answering call,
Cried proudly, deep within their concealed nest.

Somewhere a stream trickles its way across,
The wood, its flow, the artery that serves,
To nourish this green creature I stand within,
Alive and other, beyond our frame of reference.

Exploring woodland in Hertford the other day, I stopped alone for a moment, and realised I was anything but…
(30.05.22)

© Ben Quant 2022