It's one year today since I left for a book-making residency at the Skaftfell Center in Iceland.
I wrote and thought and made so much there and about it since. It was, in the closing words of my diary of the time, strange, hard, rich and rewarding.
Here are some (nearly) wordless poems that I've only just reassembled. I've finally run out of things to say about that time and place (for now).
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