A Concordia University Field School in Iceland
Pulling over head
Warm sweaters, coat jackets, hats
Left empty hangers.
Slowly, raindrops line our clothes
Shimmer on our hair.
We leave footprints through black sand
Warp over long grass
Making our way into town
Hearing our laughter.
Weaving through the festival,
Translating wishes
Attempting to speak, and joke,
Now reaching my lips, rhubarb.
Andre Bastian Ibarguengoitia
Fingertips through wool
Heard the howling metal roof
Weaving in and out
Yesterday I spent some time outside sitting on the grass. I was weaving, I’ve really taken to it since the workshop and it’s how I end most of my days. I sat on the grass passing the wool under and over the warp, listening. The wind really picked up then, making its way from the bay, over the beach, through the grass, and past me; onward to the mountains. It’s wonderful to have mountains in view again, I had missed them too much. The sound of the wind pulls you back though, a quiet morning into a whistling evening. Feeling it cut through your clothes wakes you and pulls you down to the grass. Where the wind only finds your hair and combs it along with the verdancy around you. That’s when the sunshine surprises you, warms you, and that warmth that the wind would sooner take away stays woven into the fibres of your sweater.
