The candle still burns wax forming a bird face, a animal staring into the yellow flame flickering as a small draft cathes it making shadows on the timber walls.

Feet so warm snug in my warm wool blanket, staring up at the wood roof grain and cobwebs cover each corner, spider waiting helping the old cabin to stay fly free.

Resting his feet on the cold floor he reaches for his woollen socks, damp from the day before. He crawls over to the fire, just one match left. Snapping small twigs he places them like an Indian tpee. Dry and thin the heat from the small flame cathes the twigs and they burn. Turning he sees the candle he could have used.

Dressed and warm he doesn’t have a plan for the day, they come along without him thinking, he lifts the wooden latch smooth from years of human touch, opening slowly the daylight comes through the door filling the cabin with a new day

Arms out stretched he breaths in the cold clean air, lungs filled with the best fuel about. The Nuthatch makes its way down the tree calling for a mate. The familiar sound of geese as the make their way to the lake.

Leaves fall golden and yellow with orange tips resting by the man’s feet. He moves forward the path he has walked for years, a path of peace and filled with flowers trees of blossom the fragrance drifts past his nose, reminds him of home.

Like a dream he moves silent like the Tiger that once roamed Born Free in the wild only to be seen behind a cage now. The clearing ahead beckons him the Oak bench he carved many years ago covered in beach leaves.

Resting his body he reaches in his smock pocket for his little Honne harmonica, numbers and engraving worn away through use. The sweet notes of Danny Boy fill the forest drifting with the wind dropping as they lose the sound blown from his lungs.

Twigs start to move leaves to, movement cathes his eye, its Little Red looking for food, long legs leaping forward he lands on the bench. There eyes meet and the man reaches into his pocket for a treat for his little friend.

Little Red

Music and nature surround him love drifts from his body adding to the beauty of the moment. The Rowan wood rests with his old knife on the carved arm of the bench, old hands caressing the grain felt so many times move back and forth like a dancer from Swan Lake the blade gliding effortlessly soft wood chips fall all around like confetti.

The shape of a heart sits in the palm of his hand next to his wedding ring, softly he writes Love You Ruth blade like a Parker pen words for his sweetheart, soul mate, best friend and wife.

Ripples on the lake circles from small to large move outwards, the mist clears and the shape gets clearer as the small boat enters his vision. Like a Swan the lady settled on the seat comes into view. The oars moving like a composer in a romantic ballad they come to rest in the cold misty morning water.

Coming to rest on the shore he stares eyes wide focusing on the white figure dressed for her special day, she floats ashore with grace moving forward to where the man sits, stopping by his feet. Hands open he places the little wood heart in her soft gentle hand.

She smiles he stands and holding hands they walk silent with little Red along the path, birds sing songs of love and happiness. Smoke comes from the chimney top making heart shapes as it spreads their never ending story.

They reach the old cabin he stops takes her in his arms lifts her and cradles her, little Red opens the door the move to the fire side. Resting her down they look into the glowing fire no words are said.

Candle still flickers as they sit in love in the old cabin.