The Edgelands carry memory.
The memory of feet and source.
The memory of mist and borders.
The memory of time.
Yet, its sense of time is fickle.
It stretches a moment into a day,
or steals a century from you in a second.
In that space between midnight and dawn,
it slows and expands. Its whisper, distinct.
A prickle of fear. A shiver of curiosity. Often, both.
To walk the Edgelands is to brush against yesterday, today, and tomorrow;
to let memory, myth, and magic conjure passages to other worlds.
– Photography and words by Robin Rivers
