the willow whistle

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

ferocious

Crouched it the long grass
The Black Panther
Rules the night

The silver blue moonlight
Glistens on her coat
Of deepest black

The slightest movement
And her ears twitch
In anticipation

Green eyes widen
As she fixes her gaze
On her prey

Her lips curl to reveal
Menacing white fangs
Ferocious fangs

Then like a bullet
From a gun
She pounces

Another night
Another kill
Another victim