My Friend

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

My Friend

It is so forlorn to say goodbye
To a friend well nurtured who satisfies
The quintessential definition of friend.
All good friendships too soon must end.

I leave you with a bit of my heart.
My wistful smiles and jokes as we part
Will linger still in your soulful eyes.
Friends like time so swiftly fly.

I am glad I knew your clever ways.
Your memory I will visit on quiet days.
Remembering the words you shared
Each gesture and thoughtful tug at your hair.

I will treasure each and every scene.
Every pronouncement and every dream.
My Friend, I will always keep you near
Alive in the distant laughter I hear.

Marianna

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 -1886

Marianna

Sparkling white wine in an etched glass,
Bubbling gently, not meant to last.
Kaleidoscopic rainbow light
Fill the eyes and glow in the night.

Beaming smile and a joyful noise,
Walking vessel of grace and poise.
Twinkling eyes revealing a soul
Where pain and sorrow took their toll.

Yet the Springtime follows her step.
Scent of roses forever kept
As tokens of love remembered.
Sweet as May, fresh in December.

The turning river that brings her
Into your life but no further,
Overflows with her Naiad’s song.
Drink deep, she must hurry along.

The Lavender Fields

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M. Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Lavender Fields

I have changed a bit in this land so pleasant,
My hair is longer, my face is bare.
I walk with a staff, the cloth boots of a peasant.
I stroll the farm lanes without a care.
My legs grow strong in the clear fresh air.

The old man gave me the Shepard’s staff.
The old man who accepted me as his own.
He told me always keep walking, with a laugh,
Walk and you will never be alone,
Walk to the lavender fields when you roam.

I took his advice it could do no harm,
I walked along to the cicada’s song.
I grew weary on the lanes of the farms
And vowed to walk even though it was long,
Walk to the lavender fields at next dawn.

I walked the next morning at daylight.
Growing tired I walked for several miles
The noon day sun was hot and bright.
I climbed a small hill, at the top I smiled.
I leaned on my Shepard’s staff  for a while.

The lavender fields spread out before me
Undulating in the summer breeze.
Rows of colour, like a rolling sea,
Waves of riotous purple to please
Thousands of gathering honey bees.

This city boy thought of nothing to say,
The fields felt holy and sanctified.
I sat for hours on that marvelous day.
I walked to the lavender fields and tried
To take in the beauty that Nature provides.

I looked across the fields and saw
The old man walking steady and slow,
Walking the lavender fields, he paused,
And waved his hand to me to show
I would never be alone where  lavender grows.

The Adventure of Le Serveur de la Mort

From “The Poems of John H. Watson”
Reprinted By M.Vernet
The Missing Years 1883 – 1886

The Adventure of Le Serveur de la Mort

Idyllic days under sunny skies
Had taken its toll, I must surmise,
For Holmes has told me ” The game is afoot,
Dress quickly, I will explain en route.”

La Securite Nationale in Paris
Was just a little bit embarrassed
There was a murderer on a spree
On who it was they could not agree.

They knew that Holmes had settled in
With his French Vernet kin.
They took advantage of Honore’, the old man,
Begged for Holmes and I to lend a hand.

The killer was called, Le Serveur de la Mort,
He killed British tourists to settle some score.
If a cup of tea was ordered by a visiting Brit
He would poison the brew with Arsenic.

A simple plan, a teetotaler I played
While Holmes, a waiter, nearby stayed.
At a street-side cafe’ I would order tea
Holmes watched out for the poisoner and me.

I grew so thirsty not drinking a sip
I ordered water, brought the glass to my lip.
Holmes jumped to the table and grabbed my arm,
Not the tea, but the water would do me harm.

The waiter who poisoned the water was near
He looked towards Holmes and I with fear.
I sprang at him to bring him down.
He had a knife! We were on the ground!

He got me good on my arm and my cheek,
Before Holmes could drag him to his feet
And hit him with the poisoned water jug.
The cheering crowd I met with a shrug.

Holmes cleaned my cheek and called the Gendarme.
He wrapped my wound with growing alarm.
He was so pale, he was starting to panic
The sight of my blood had made him frantic.

“I am not hurt badly!” I proclaimed.
“And you are certainly not to blame,
We saved some fellow Englishman
From a painful death in a foreign land.”

I felt a bit faint, I wanted to rest.
We took a cab to our Parisian nest.
Holmes sent for a Doctor, he ordered food and wine,
The hotel staff could not be more kind.

Things finally settled, I was comfortable.
Holmes told me his thoughts, remarkable.
Le Serveur de la Mort was the bastard son
Of a very rich and famous Englishman.

I tried to follow, the wine addled my brain,
It also quite effectively eased my pain.
I saw his concern, he had not touched a drop
I took his hand and made him stop.

“Thank you for letting me into your life
Our Adventures are worth a wound from a knife,
I am so grateful, I could not bear
Losing you and the life that we share.”

Holmes closed his eyes, took a calming breath
What he said next I will never forget.
“Without you my life would be over and done,
For what good is a Holmes without his Watson.”