Old Whistle Tune

The old man strode with purpose, whistling as he went on his way.  His rubber wellied feet kicked up the leafy carpet, his arms balancing a rake over his shoulder.  The rake suited him well; the metal rusting and old like him, the spokes bent out of shape from a lifetime of labour.  He began to rake up the fallen leaves, the old whistling tune mingling with the delicate notes of the leaves as they cut through the air.  He worked tirelessly, amassing piles standing proud like monuments amidst the trees.  All the while he whistled that old whistle tune.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s