Coast to Coast: Tasmania to Ireland

        random improvisations

dallyings between

Spring in Tasmania to Autumn in Ireland (September 2017-September 2018)


                                                                  the centre of the ear rings true to itself

                                                                  the centre of the ear rings true to itself

A blue wren flickers at the window


                                            what's a day for? 

to miss what you're looking for?

or to remain? (nod to Laurie Anderson)

a wet wall on a Sunday afternoon

summons a reverberation or a weakening wail

Monday...I stumble into strings...what next

Wind in an orifice

detecting fractures

where rainbows fear to spread

 when joining I become

like a millipede

impeding melifluousness

in the rain

I’m leaning towards a bare board

decorated with piano strings

flicking sound at the world

What is constant in this world

where beginnings end

and endings remain unfinished?

beneath a glissando

glistening with horror

an echo

forests my ear


Nutgrove Battery: fortifications shadowing now...

Nutgrove Battery: fortifications shadowing now...

At the battery...Saturday at large


Gulls forming to one

scoop above the surface of a sea

that's riven by wind:

pursuing infinity


A yacht falls

undone by undulations:

I'm past looking for recovery.

A tall man in black 

walks towards the end, 

an intention arresting his face: 

he's unseeing:

my welcome's withheld.


A girl shelters 

where the sand ends 

and cliffs ascend.


The surfer slides forward

pulled by a parachute  

of eagle's wings:

near is too far

in these gusts.


Here come the birds again:



breathe out, she said

then listen

lisp into the mouthpiece

so the wind rises

and the seas roar…

Can you hear the scream?

I’m between the devil

and the green sky

filigree findings

on an extremity

when rigidity bends

pitch with a soft head

where’s the centre of things?

can I pitch myself within an intonation

to atone for bad breath?

cellar jail (homestead)


within the rim of certitude

a woman lilts:


in Irish





glissando splices a pulse

beating where voices cease

to mean more than

fence lines




random notes to birds:

can you hear the detritus of a Sunday afternoon?

babbling un-hesitating at the gables

as if urgency gives agency

and repetition competence

bow in the rain



I bow the ruined piano

near a wall

find an A

horse hair

on metal


shakuhachi impersonation


he appeared

at goats’ bluff

slanting into glare

bent to a shakuhachi

subtle in his fame

while waves cast surfers

into foam



withering in late afternoon sun

I hit the wrecked piano

propped like a tray against the wall

suspending its strings


the varnished wood trembles

hollows in micro tones

patched into

tintinnabulating echo

while the sun feeds this slowing



light resembles possibility

when sparks lift off a rusted string

then die

as if what’s new

can find a beginning



one third of a sound

like a bird

or a mother-cry

beyond the grave stone

against a wall of fever




a space exists

between two or more


in the name

of what