Post 1607. Sunday September 24
Sometimes whilst walking among the trees she saw him. They played hide and seek for a few moments then he was gone. Her friends said she imagined him, the sun playing games with its shadows they said. But she knew different.
He sat cross-legged on a tree stump, in one hand a piece of willow, in the other a shiny blade. He chipped, smoothed and whittled until the little wooden whistle was perfect. He left it on the stump, a token of his love for the fair maiden with a promise that whenever she blew a merry tune he would appear.
One autumn day as she waved farewell she dropped it on the leaf-strewn forest floor. She was never to see her whistle again, nor him.
Each day she walks amid the trees, kicking aside the leaves seeking the place where one passionate summer’s day she lost her little wooden whistle.