Tom Lyden is a local poet who has had work published in the U.S., Canada, and Australia. He is very influenced by music and nature, and is currently organising The Basket House group, an arts collective which will stage weekly readings and events in Clifden during the summer.

Tom's writing will be featured on the Clifden & Connemara page from now on.

In Clifden the night throbs. Out from tents and luxurious hotels visitors spill into the miasma of expectancy. A bodhrán bleats across the square from Humpty's pub where Germans awkwardly keep time to the music. The young trendies from Dublin drink American beer from the bottle while grisled farmers and fishermen drink pints of half and half.

In Griffin's bar on the jukebox Van Morrison sings out from the chrome. Lovers kiss drink soaked in the corner. A lone dancer with rebellion in his shoes springs out onto the middle of the floor.

Somewhere in my memory a horse and cart like a wonky anachronism rattles by. The sound and resonance of my father clearing stables for a shopkeeper so many years ago. The smell of dung permeates my nostrils still.

The Sky Road winds so sinuously in its wonder as I walk and climb past the village of Faulkeera where I was born. A village where I almost feel hermetically sealed in. Something bellows through me on this road so atavistic and primal. Every sound feels like a chink from my childhood, a maelstrom of emotion churning so ferociously in my gut. A wondrous child still ponders beneath my surface.

At Clifden Castle I can still almost hear the excitement of dances from another age. The sound of music almost an echo from the old ballroom walls. An ancient graciousness still clings to the decaying premises. A stream drains the village above the castle and on its waters is a wonderful natural grotto which was used as a shell-house by one of the owners. To this day its waters are supposed to have healing qualities.

On the beach at Eyrephort the waves feel like they're pounding me into some kind of acceptance and forgiveness towards life. The water on the edge of the Atlantic pulls me to the hub of living and taunting me not to stay forever at the rim.

In the distance a farmer like a phantom mends a fence. In this place the common becomes magic. On a hill I crouch into the foetal position and want to be swallowed by all this beauty. A dog howls from an island bringing me back to the here and now.

A heavy yearning evolves in me slowly as I meet so many people who stand so well on this ground. A place where egos don't paw the ground in some kind of pagan prance. This land blesses us with its secrecy and gives itself slowly. I want to keep this sweetness within me forever and laud its power.

Tom Lyden