I Avoid Traffic On My Way To Radio Shropshire

I set off down the steep gradient of St Mary's Water Lane to the River Severn. It is not so steep as to be too much so. I cycle along the river path, bumping over the cobbled stretch under the bridges upon which Shrewsbury railway station is built. From here it's a flat run out to the weir.

The weir-water is calm and silvery-smooth: recent flooding turbulence is a memory - there's a hint of white froth bubbling the surface where the descending water rejoins the flow of the river.

The path ends in a road and the road runs by the river. Just past the island, a goose is being goosey - stretching its neck and greeting the morning. I pass joggers, cyclists, and early walkers. There are no cars. The air is clear, hopeful.

Often we nod to each other, us early-risers, say, “Hi!” in the conspiracy of those who know that to be up and out on a spring morning is one of the best things, especially as, despite everything being muddled and angry in some places, here the sunlight highlights the whites and pinks of blossom, searches out the lime green of emerging leaves.

The only cars are parked cars. I turn right through sleepy bungalows, and then right again onto the cycle path but then choose left, not the route to the canal path. The sign points to Mount Pleasant, as if that is a state of being that is still possible. A gradual gradient up, and yes, it's pleasant in the cool air, the cindered path just right for a bike, or for a walker, or for a bike and a walker passing going in apparently opposite directions. The walker adjusts his direction slightly, curves leftwards to leave me more space to pass, says, "Hello!".

Crossing the main road at the lights, I take to quiet residential streets for a while - then it's back to a cycle path over the railway bridge and past more houses, stirring into their Saturday. There's no jeopardy even in the last stretch, though it takes me, briefly, onto the main road.

At the radio studios, I chat with Liz, producer, and then Ryan Kennedy, and I catch up, talk poetry, talk the weather, talk the clocks changing. I get to Carol Caffrey's poem, read 'The Moorings'. It's as beautiful as this morning - holds loss, grief: is freefall with light grace, afloat with hope.


https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0736062 - I read Carol's poem at 39 mins 10 seconds

I Party Long Into the Night

It's not often my friends turn 130, especially the ones who aren't Hobbits, but that's what is happening in February and March to Graham 'n' Ted, two of the sweetest, dearest of them.

The idea for a party was mine - at least, I'll claim it as such. It might not have been, but it scarcely matters. What happened was, there was an idea among poets that G and T, GKA and Big Ted, could and should and would share a party, because together they are making 130 years young.

At the heart of the party was the dance. Not just any dance, but the sort of dancing that people do from start to finish because it's so compulsory in a lenient way. That's to say, the folks operating the vinyl decks, Mike and Hattie, made it easy in their choice of songs. Who wouldn't dance, raise their hands, smile to Free Nelson Mandela, especially those of us who are approaching, are at, or past, 130 combined years with our nearest and dearest. We remember it, you see: the special hope of the early 1990s, when we were grown up already, and some of us were, or were about to become parents, but still it seemed possible (and I mean everything) because peace broke out in several ways in several places.  South Africa. Northern Ireland. And the Berlin wall had already fallen.

In the centre of the party were two of the sweetest, dearest of men. Men who embrace the dance of a party, of friendship, of love in all its forms. Men who rock being men in the modest, kind and strong in-a-good-way - way that honours all the women that know and love them. And all the men too, come to think of it. In the centre of the party was the hope of love and peace - and it was a sober happiness.

That's the thing - this wasn't some slurred, blurred feeling of numbed contentment. This party had the natural joy induced by two hours, more, of stamping, swaying, grooving dancing, and a magnificent jointly brought along buffet and Mike's excellent raspberry and almond cake - you see, after an hour of this dancing around in yellow boots, GKA in his top hat, Ted whistling, I noticed that everything that's difficult about being 130, all that knowing the world in its complication, fell away. And what came around was simplicity. No matter our imperfections, some of the messes we might have made along the way - no matter our successes and achievements. This was so straightforward, dancing together, wreathed in music, in the friendship of years, and in deep acceptance and the kind of loving that exceeds categories, and will still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and for the next eleventy years.

Happy Birthday, GKA!  Happy Birthday Ted!  We love you. And here you are, cutting the cake: