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As I was scanning the Bill of Fayre the waiter hovered beside my
chair,
We’ve Galway salmon I heard him
declare and then in a local confident tone
We’ve turbot, halibut and sole on
the bone but our salmon is best and widely known.
He walked away with his step so
light his folded napkin gleaming white,
I knew of course he was perfectly
right but what could a London waiter know
In a crowded café in Soho where
the shaded lights were dim and low,
Of the Salmon Weir and the
Claddagh fleet in the city where bay and Corrib meet
In the twisted length of a Galway
street.
How would those tails that he wore
compare with an Aran Jacket in old Eyre Square
Or a Bainin seen at a Galway fair,
what would he know of the purple and gray
Of an autumn twilight that twarped
the bay, or the magic scent of new-mown hay
Or the things a man can never
tire, of the open hearth and the big turf fire
Or the lowing of cows in a village
byre?
Disturbing my dreams as I sat in
state he brought me the fish disguised on a plate
Garnished with sauces up to date.
In a cantankerous manner I began
“I’d rather it fried on a sizzling pan
Or grilled with butter; I’m a
country man”.
He served me the fish in Soho
style, fidgeting there by my side a while,
On his face the ghost of a
quizzical smile.
“Sure that’s how I’d like it
myself tonight, in a nest of mushrooms, am I right?”
“In the flickering rays of the
candlelight, no booking of tables in advance,
No dazzling menus worded in
France, no one to give me a curious glance,
But turf sods blazing under the
pot, potatoes flouring and piping hot
With a second helping, like it or
not”.
Was he assuming the Brogue of the
West; making of me the butt of his jest?
But I waited until I heard the
rest
“I played as a child by the Corrib
Weir and I watched the salmon many a year
When the day was bright and the
water clear, saw the Cliffs of Moher in kindly weather,
The Aran Islands huddled together,
each Curragh passing light as a feather.
Dun Aengus battling through wind
and rain, a blackbird’s song in a Galway lane
Sure I often think of these days
in vain”.
He walked away in his black and
white with a step that seemed no longer light
And a mist came up and clouded my
sight.
When I cross the Weir in the
sunset’s glow I think of him shuffling to and fro
In that crowded café in Soho.
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