…a writers world neither black nor white…

…how dreamy late winter and early spring mists are when they conjure so many imaginings that lurk or glide within the wetness of their frosted mystery.

…writing in this weather has constantly inspired me although now, with spring’s return, I must search for a different level of understanding in the new light that creeps in at dawn …neither black nor white …dark or light but something misty, silvery in between and I am trying to capture this essence in my next book Grey Weaving’s.

…the journey continues as the characters seek not only the missing person but their own identities, ancestries as they too search the Myst of Tyme for answers.

Grey Weaving’s    

Grey the threads, once coloured, weave, as all souls this realm must leave, that man himself, could so deceive

…the failing Skeins of Tyme

Each mortal a thread that woven must, in perfect love and perfect trust, to rise above the cut and thrust that snaps

… the Skeins of Tyme.

Where to mend and where to sew, loose threads fly, no colours glow, as all beyond this realm must go

…into the Skeins of Tyme

Through the gateway, once star bright, its edge now tainted by the blight, into shadow’s darkest night

…beyond the Skeins of Tyme

Slender Silver Birches whispered secrets to a flock of noisy sparrows, arrowing like darts into the depths of ancient twisted limbs; their last leaves clinging stubbornly, shaken loose, circling, drifting down to join their siblings on the earth to begin the journey to mulch-hood. It was cold but the sounds of nature were undiminished; a raven’s caw, a kookaburra’s contagious chuckle and the sweet sound of a thrush echoed across the garden to the silent group sitting beneath the canopy of branches, soaking up the sun’s last warmth, before winter’s final grip held the earth in stasis.

After the Samhain rite the group, tired and confused, did not know if the outcome of their ritual had been successful in locating Sybille and aware that much was riding on it. They had witnessed things they could not name although so much more had, to their frustration, been hidden from sight as they’d stood, backs turned, to the events unfolding.

Claire had disappeared unnoticed, as had Tara, shortly after the rite. At the time remaining eight were more concerned for the welfare of their friend Beth as she disappeared and then as suddenly reappeared, unconscious but apparently unharmed.

As they had closed the circle down around Beth suddenly several Fae had stepped forward, led by Aithlin Farandir and ignoring all the rules of entry into human dwellings without permission, they had carried her effortlessly into the house. Laying her on the couch in Sybille’s old study, they had gently covered her with a wrap of silken thread, singing her the song of rest.

Now, while Samantha, Maeve, Flora, Susan, Alex, Morgan, Max and Cal waited Beth slept on. She walked the other realms …finding her way through the folds and twists of the Skeins of Tyme; through the forest circle of her one-time sisters, to a lichen and moss covered jetty where an inky-black raven sat and an otter waited. 

…and so the tale is woven tighter between the past and the future …the now and then and into the “between” …colouring all the threads together until they become as one on the Skeins of Tyme …Penny

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