18/05/2026
Recent photo of the River Suir and a poem by local poet Larry 'Doc' Doherty hot of press to accompany.
Shur, it's only the Suir
by Larry 'Doc' Doherty
Fluidity gifted from Barnane Éile
passing through Purcell's Loughmore,
dealing life and death and Féile
by pheasant island and humble arch
of Dúrlas Éile Uí Fhogartaigh
born on a river ford, and on and on it flows
to Holycross, Athassal, Cahir and beyond.
A different river from minutes before
like time itself, taking its toll.
I imagine the ghost of a guard slouch
by tower-house castle's East Gate
gathering taxes into his smelly pouch
from market bound peasants and traders
of wheat, wool, wine and wood.
Four year olds crossed the Suir to the nuns
for prayers, songs and recitations;
shuffled in mysterious processions across
the great divide, from 'beyond the bridge'
to 'the far side', to the majestic Cathedral,
Or to the graveyard to see off a grandad
Or to hurl street league in Kickham Park
I wonder if Eliza Poyntz Butler, Lady Thurles,
ever took a dip in her slip or her nip
as Lady Godiva of Thurles, or if Donal Mór O'Brien paused in triumphant glee to rince
his Loughtagalla and Lugnafula spoils
or if Tom Semple puck fada'd from the Square
or if Daniel O'Connell really walked on water.
I learned to attach fish bait, wriggling worms -
river sacrifices, opposite the swinging gates;
later sauntered proudly down that college side
to lie in trance on the grass with a gorgeous girl.
And just down the river an ancient holy well,
Ladies Well - just a summer swimming hole for us.
Shur it's only the Suir, nothing surer.
📷 Love Thurles
