He sat cross legged under a tree
in a wood
In one hand a piece of willow, in the other
a shiny pocket knife.

He chipped, and smoothed and whittled
until he was sure
that his little wooden whistle was perfect
As perfect as could be.

It was to be a token of his love
for a fair maiden
A reminder of his promise to always be there
whenever she called.

But life can be cruel and one day
he wasn’t there.

Years later a girl walked through the wood
searching for the place
where one passion filled summers day
she lost her willow whistle