Winter

Poem 753 – Enough?

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There’s tension in knowing
The battery is full
Which should be enough
But it’s cold outside
And the gap between
Mileage and miles
Is closing and closing
In front of your eyes
As muscles are tensing
Suspense keeps on growing
But you keep on going
As warnings start glowing
Until…

…ahh
With great satisfaction
You glide to a stop
You made it okay
Just ten miles on the clock.

A long day’s driving the EV the cold. Took a calculated gamble and didn’t stop to charge.
(06.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Joshua Fernandez on Unsplash

Poem 749 – Under January Skies

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The winter’s sky, the bitter pale,
Bites our faces and bleaches soil,
Its cutting sun burns scars in our sight,
With crispness of air and blinding light.

The iron ground and crinkling step,
That crunches under frozen foot,
Is joined above by a piercing breeze,
Whipping shivering birds and naked trees.

And we, caressed by dying sun,
In melancholy are undone,
And looking forward count the cost,
Mourning the things that aren’t yet lost.

Inspired by a chilly walk and a line I read today.
(02.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Polina Kuzovkova on Unsplash

Poem 713 – Thursday Morning, Late November

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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)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Dawit on Unsplash

Poem 706 – An Apple Tree in Winter

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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…

Poem 687 – Summer’s Passing

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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

Poem 680 – Season’s End

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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

Poem 393 – Jack’s World

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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 384 – Two Worlds

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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 232 – Winter Morning’s Ride

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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