An almanac of the imaginal, a book of Old Burrow hours.
These pages are quietly tended; each entry marked by hour and season, a kept threshold record - neither wholly of this world, not apart from it.
The small beginnings of a story, elusive and magical, a midwinter tale from lands north of The Old Burrow.
The hedge at the edge of the far field, where ribbons are tied by passers-by between thorn and hazel. Dreams and prayers linger here. It feels unsettled. The land beyond does not belong to the Old Burrow and the Old Burrow does not claim it. I sense that sometimes there are those who slip though.
A sleeping messenger, their stillness is sensed by all around them, it is a depth of quiet that causes all creatures to speak in whispers. And the timing of each delivery, is as divine as the falling of an acorn to earth.
Another sleeping messenger, only days apart. A scribe lives there- this news is long-awaited.
This one carries hope, It is written in the air between the trees and the sigils on the stones.
A threshold walker carrying relics and stories from the Darkwood realm.
The hours as they feel - celestial and terrestrial
Merrin
