Читать книгу A Question of Time - Jamie Ashbird - Страница 9

I wrote a sonnet for my sweetheart. Such slender consideration he gives to my dabbles in the arts, but can conceive of none better in the art of love. Look here:

Upon a dreary night of mud and rain

My love and I by a hedgerow crouch down

By foot and by steed our prey didst we gain

In the cold mud there did our bodies drown

Hark there, do you see?’ My love did proclaim

‘The footprints, look there, the blaze on his horse

For theft of the jewels that man is to blame’

‘Then why,’ said I, ‘do we dwell in this gorse?’

The inn door we did not hear clang shut

‘Fore the woman’s voice rung clear and said

‘Come out now, Sherlock Holmes, ’ere you I cut’

‘Dear John,’ my love said, ‘I fear I’m misled’

I did not, could not, think of my love less

When he bowed low and said, ‘Long live Queen Bess’

He tells me I should not bestrew his errors about the city, but Her Majesty – desiring it to be known she outwitted Sir Sherlock Holmes – insists.

Deny it he will but he preens like a proud cock to see his name in print. I am determined to publish with all speed in The Foreshore Pamphlet and sign it: To My Beau.