Claddagh Solstice

The other night a friend of mine came back to the house after having pint in Neachtains. He seemed a bit perturbed. Seems he was having a fag and conversation in Irish outside with another smoker.

Another fella (Irish accent himself)comes out and sneered a nasty comment about them
"Still speaking that foreign language?" and something about how they should be speaking English.

Needless to say,your man was barking up the wrong tree in the wrong town for that sort of comment because; from what I know, English is the foreign language. He was lucky in the fact that he was rude to two civilised Galway folk, native speakers.

So, wet noodle slap for the day goes to the fella who probably failed Irish on his leaving.

Blogpoem for today:


Claddagh Solstice


A hooker docked
in the basin
sways in the wake of wild swans
who nibble from the red
gloved hand of a tourist.

A watercolour sky;
streaked and spiked
with Monet’s light frames
the locals lifting lobster
pots talking simple talk-
this Claddagh summer solstice

In the distance, a silver bladed
windmill swirls as we amble
past a field of lemon yellow flowers
“cattle poisoning weeds ”you say.

A granite stone, sun soaked, shapes
a warmer seat than slate.

Talking endlessly, the conversation hovers;
we tiptoe beyond comfy boundaries
knowing we’ve tapped a fissure
in this fragile eggshell of intimacy.

Overhead a giant gull soars,
racing the cormorant to the sea



Theresa Daly