The sentry stands alert upon the shed,
his puffed out silhouette proudly picked out by
the rising rays of the winter sun. Lifting
his beak, he expands his scarlet chest and shrills his fanfare. Branches straighten in response.
I often find myself watching our garden birds first thing as I look out of our kitchen windows.
(11.12.25)
Thursday morning at eleven o’clock. The cars
all have their automatic headlights on
to lift the lethargy. It does not work.
A pensive mood infects the air and even
the sun is tentative. It seems afraid,
a fearful suitor, reluctant to commit.
Before too long the hopeful Christmas lights
will shine, and maybe that will lift our eyes,
but for now, like Simeon, we’re forced to wait
and wonder if the Son will ever rise.
Walking home this morning I was struck by the car lights…
(27.11.25)
The apple tree stands bare, its leaves
lie on the floor as if it has
undressed and dropped them there. Naked,
it shivers with us all. It’s cold.
Strangely, its apples stay suspended,
red orbs up in this grey-scale air,
a natural orrery. But these
bright lights must also dim and die,
their failing orbits causing them
to fall and sleep till summer’s rise.
Our apple tree looks odd right now, caught in between two seasons.
(20.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The numbering of my poems is all wrong, and so I’m leaving them unnumbered until I get around to correcting them…
The river mourns, bedraggled willows weep,
their tousled hair drenched in its silent tears.
Its darkened waters meet the dreary mood,
the sun withholds its glow in sympathy.
Otters frolic no more and stay indoors,
above autumnal leaves begin to fall.
The rushes twitch, and coots peer out, as below
their doors the heavy cortege wearily flows.
Perched on his lonely post, dressed in funereal
black, the cormorant bows, pays his respects.
A lowly swan takes flight and passing honks,
‘Alas our green and pleasant land is dead!’
By the end of our walk the sun had come out, but much of our morning stroll had a very different character.
(01.11.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
The crest of winter creeps across the land.
Soon will come the crenellations of white
that edge the fringes of the frozen fields
andd lace the country lanes with a glistening sheen.
We walk. Fingers unused to the cold welcoming
the warmth afforded by coat pockets when thrust
into their hidden depths. Despite the carpet
of autumnal leaves, the light’s subdued, dialled down.
Our conversation hushed, we huddle close
contemplating the coming chill. Even
the birds are so, as summer songs are silenced.
The world draws in and waits for winter’s veil.
We shared an enjoyable walk this morning. The sun is out today, but the signs are there that the seasons are turning.
(25.10.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Sue Winston on Unsplash
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
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
It’s dark, and as I mount my saddle to
ride out, my limbs are stiff and unresponsive.
The dawning sun perches upon the valley
hill-line and casts its weary eye abroad.
Below it, ripples catch alight and burn
in contrast to their frost-drained surroundings.
The cold inveigles itself uninvited,
kicks off its shoes, and squats amongst my bones.
My muscles clench like bailiffs, but they fail
in their eviction efforts. It persists.
As fingers burn there is no choice but to
stoically press on in imitation.
At home, the heat violently awakes me.
It has been a bitterly cold week, in which I have been out a number of times on my bike. Although the surroundings are beautiful, it hurts.
(18.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
The sun hesitates;
the damp ground is left longing.
This seasonal purgatory is
an advent pause that’s caught
between what was and what’s to come.
A time to hold our breath
and wait in faith and hope.
Walking back from taking a Christmas assembly at school earlier this week, I was struck by how gloomy it was. The day hadn’t quite managed to begin, and probably wouldn’t do so before night set in.
(09.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo adapted from Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
This morning’s frost looked beautiful but
it bites my neck and makes my muscles ache.
My fingers have become a fading white.
My breath’s condensing on my nose. It drips.
I brew more cups of tea to warm within
but even this becomes draining,
necessitating even more trips to the bathroom.
I fear to look in the mirror.
Will anything be there? Or is, as I suspect,
the cold in truth a thirsting vampire with
its fangs open in sharp and siphoning anger.
It’s cold…
(01.12.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by David Hellmann on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 