Our Time Between Stories

We never know what each day will bring. That is where wonder lives.

Now, the dust is settling around me becoming Worcestershire Poet Laureate for 2026-2027, I have been enjoying the simple act of discovering that poetry often arrives where we least expect it. Sometimes it can be found in a crowded room, other times, when I need my mind to slow a little, beside a river. Other times, slap bang in the middle of a conversation with someone I have only just met. And occasionally, it arrives disguised as a pretty ordinary week that reveals itself to become anything but.

This chapter of my laureateship began with a welcome return to 42Worcester, a “strange and spooky spoken word event” now being held at Script Haven in its lovely new premises and hosted by Suz Winspear and Leena Batchelor, both former Worcestershire Poet Laureates. It was my first visit back, in person, since becoming Poet Laureate, and it did feel kind of fitting to share a brand-new poem inspired by a mysterious bookshop where time itself seems to behave a little differently. It was one of those stories that simply popped into my head that allowed me to weave together memories of Doris the ferry, Worcester Cathedral and the wonderful people who have helped shape these first few weeks of my laureateship. There is something magical about reading a poem in the very place that inspired it, watching listeners drift into the same imagined world that first appeared in my own mind. It was lovely and the cappuccino there is fabulous.

Life, however, has a habit of reminding me that it rarely follows the neat structure of a poem. Not long afterwards, my mobile rang. It was the Gender Identity Clinic, or rather one of their partner clinics. After waiting eight years, they had a cancellation appointment and asked if I was available. Some opportunities ask me to stop everything and simply say yes. This was one of them. Eight years is a long time to wait for a conversation that lasts only a short while, in a far off place like London, but it marked another important step in a journey that has already taught me a great deal about patience, hope and becoming.

The week continued with another kind of storytelling as I found myself with a quiet evening, and not sure what to do with it, scrolling through Netflix and Amazon Prime, when I checked my phone to see a friend was launching their play not far from me. So, I went to see The Last Voices in the Void, written by Shadow-Laura Liptrot. I have always believed poetry and theatre are close relatives. Both invite us to step into somebody else’s world for a little while, and to leave carrying thoughts that perhaps were not there when we arrived. The play was stunning, beginning with three actors before Shadow-Laura joined them midway through. The actors delivered it with such passion and gravitas that it was simply captivating.

There was barely time to catch my breath before setting off to celebrate the launch of Brian Comber’s latest collection, The Fishmongers of Jerez. Traffic did its very best to prevent me getting there, but thankfully poetry proved more determined than the roadworks, and even though I was a little late it felt good to be there. Book launches have a special atmosphere, they celebrate not only a finished collection but the years of quiet writing, rewriting and wondering that made it possible.

Not every memorable moment involves an audience.

One of my favourite days was spent with my son in Upper Arley. We sat beside the river with ice cream, wandered through Arley Arboretum, and, naturally, paused for a cappuccino. Becoming Poet Laureate has introduced me to remarkable people and unforgettable places, but it has also reminded me not to overlook the ordinary moments that have always mattered most. Some of life’s finest conversations happen without a plan.

From there it was back into the civic life of our county. It was a privilege, as Worcestershire Poet Laureate, to write and perform a new poem during the Srebrenica Remembrance at the Guildhall. Poetry can never explain an atrocity like Srebrenica, nor should it attempt to. But perhaps it can remind us that every life possesses equal value, that our shared humanity is precious, and that remembrance is not only about looking backwards but about choosing how we live together today. It was a deeply moving event, and I felt the emotion in every contribution. It is a day I will remember for a very long time.

That same afternoon I visited Worcester Repair Café. I arrived with curiosity but I left genuinely inspired.

There is something deeply hopeful about a room filled with volunteers who freely give their time repairing things many of us would simply replace. To repair something is to believe it still has value. Watching clocks, lamps, toys, lawn mowers, bikes, and household treasures being given another chance felt strangely poetic. I wrote a poem for the volunteers because their work is about much more than fixing broken objects. They repair confidence, preserve memories and quietly strengthen our community. I hope to go back there because everyone was friendly, engaging, and happy to just talk about what they love, mending things.

As the week drew to a close, I found myself sitting beside the River Severn at The Lenchford Inn. By now, I've discovered that sometimes the best discoveries happen when nothing is planned.

I filmed the river flowing gently past, breathing in the quiet that seems to settle naturally over that stretch of Worcestershire. I thought later I might put a short poem over it and put it on social media. Then I found myself chatting with Lottie, who lives in a campervan. We had never met before. By the end of our conversation it felt as though we had known each other much longer. She spoke warmly about the freedom she had found by choosing a life that suited her rather than one expected of her. It was impossible not to admire the quiet confidence with which she spoke about her world. There was no performance, no attempt to impress, just someone living authentically and wholeheartedly. I drove away thinking less about campervans and more about the quiet courage it takes to build a life that genuinely fits who we are.

As I drove home, I realised these couple of weeks had been filled with people keeping something alive. A bookseller keeping stories alive. Artists giving voices new life. Poets sharing years of work. A family making memories beside a river. A community remembering those who must never be forgotten. Volunteers repairing what others thought beyond saving. A woman living life on her own terms.

Maybe,
that is another lesson
this laureateship continues to teach me.
Poetry is not simply found in poems.
It lives wherever people choose to care.
Sometimes,
all we have to do is slow down
long enough to notice.