In the yellow fog of Limehouse, or midst sunlit countryside,
In wharfland dens or England’s stately homes,
For those telltale clues he searches, Doctor Watson at his side.
I refer, of course, to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

With his Inverness cape flapping and his old deerstalker hat,
With his meerschaum pipe aglow, the streets he roams
Through the swirling mists of London, like some lean and stealthy cat
Stalks that master of detection, Sherlock Holmes.

For when murders are committed and they’re baffled at The Yard,
Down to Baker Street the Yard detective comes;
It might be Inspector Gregson or bad-tempered George Lestrade,
But they always seek the help of Sherlock Holmes.

In their cosy but untidy rooms, whilst Watson scans the news,
Holmes pensively plays on his violin.
Then below, outside the street-door, cries of "Whoa!", the scrape of shoes,
And Mrs. Hudson shows the client in.

Holmes sits in rapt attention whilst his client tells his tale
Interjecting searching questions now and then,
Then, eyes glittering like diamonds in a visage hawklike, pale,
He takes the case – The game’s afoot again!

Then it’s off by train to Sussex, or to Dartmoor’s chilly clime,
Or by hansom to some evil Thames-side lair,
Where Holmes interviews the suspects and inspects the scene of crime,
For he know the answer’s hidden there somewhere!

And the more the mystery deepens, the more sharp his mind becomes
For he never fails to find the missing clue.
"Amazing!" cries old Watson. "Elementary." says Holmes,
"Though I never would have solved it, but for you!"

So the pair add to their exploits –"Speckled Band" and "Silver Blaze",
"The Second Stain", "The Priory School", The Sign of Four",
The "Baskerville" adventure, "Abbey Grange", "The Yellow Face",
"The Blue Carbuncle" and so many more.

Then Professor Moriarty, his archenemy of old, returns,
(And here Fate starts to take a hand!)
For Holmes allows emotion o’er his senses to take hold
And pursues his enemy to Switzerland.

Sherlock meets his match at last upon a windswept alpine ledge
And they grapple where an icy torrent foams,
And, locked in mortal combat, they both stumble off the edge…
Can this really be the last of Sherlock Holmes?

There was such a public outcry at the great detective’s end
(For to many, Sherlock Holmes was not a fiction)
Doyle was forced to resurrect him, and together with his friend,
Holmes continued with his exploits of detection.

Though Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who first created him has gone,
Still his spirit, in imagination roams,
And as long as there are writers, Holmes and Watson will live on.
May you stay with us forever, Sherlock Holmes!

© Gerry Forster 1995

While fishers reel in empty hooks
And punters curse the nag they backed,
I sit surrounded by my books –
My world of fantasy and fact.

While some risk death high in the air
Or roast upon a sun-scorched beach,
I sprawl contented in my chair –
The world of words within my reach.

I need not roam on costly tours
To seek excitement overseas.
My passport to those distant shores
Lies open here, across my knees.

Of thrills and chills, and adventure,
Of fun and geniality,
I find my books can bring me more
Than exists in reality!

But I have found there’s hazard still
In living midst this scribery…
My nerves break down; I get quite ill,
Inside a public library!

© Gerry Forster 1990