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picture_prompt_funTitle: the fair / And open face of heaven
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Gen
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 500
Notes: Italian sonnet (as well as title) inspired by "To one who has been long in city pent" by John Keats.
Challenge: #48 Picture #95
Summary: A picnic after the Hiatus.
To one who has grieved long for loss of friend
‘Tis bliss to sit and look upon the cloud
Whose shape by rays of hidden sun is shroud
Gold in the joy of a Lazarus end.
The blades of meadow green between us mend
Between our fingertips they twine and crowd
The petals soft, sharp flecks of yellow proud
Do dance on rolling hills where shepherds tend.
Resting aside him whom I hold most dear
Basking in paschal warmth undeserved
Blessing all, and being blessed in turn, here
Like birdsong the heart sings unreserved
For ‘not dead, but sleepth’ is ancient cheer
That shines through pastoral majesty.
Holmes’s eyes dance ‘cross the note-book page more than once, then darted toward me. His lower lip quivered. Then his expression changed.
No, his expression fell.
I suppose it might have been likened an avalanche of rock or snow.
His stoic calm simply collapsed, slid down his chiseled features until it was seen no more.
And he began to weep.
He tipped towards me, shaking with sobs, until his temple touched my shoulder. The damp of his tears bled through my simple shirt.
I made noises of comfort, not to halt the flow, but rather to reassure him that I loved him, in spite of the tears and because of them.
I placed a hand on his head and began to stroke his hair and, in a while, he sniffed and raised himself to sitting.
I proffered a handkerchief and somewhere in the folds of the cambric, he ironed his countenance into its customary lines and planes.
He exhaled deeply as he surveyed the landscape. Then, with a quick glance at the note-book, which I’d placed on the grass between us, he said,
“You wrote it while I was napping.”
“You have to admit, my dear Holmes, it would be difficult not to wax poetic on this beautiful day in this beautiful place,” I made a wide gesture which encompassed the clouds and sun and green meadow and yellow flowers and rolling hills and what remained of our picnic lunch, “and I so very happy to be with you again.”
“I am happy, too.” He pressed his lips together, then spoke with a tremour of anxiety. “There are moments, however, my dear Watson, when I think myself unworthy of such happiness.”
“I thought similar about myself. But then I ask, ‘Wasn’t I unworthy of the misery, too?’ and banish notions of worth. I’d rather set my mind to deciding if that cloud there,” I pointed, “looks more like a sea creature or a spleen.”
“Horseshoe crab?”
“Yes!”
He smiled, then opened the note-book and tapped at my scratchings.
“May I keep it?”
“Of course. It is yours.”
He nodded, then searched for, and found, a penknife amongst his scattered belongings. I watched as he made a seasoned surgeon’s job of removing the page. Then he folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Thank you, Watson.”
“My pleasure, Holmes.”
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Gen
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 500
Notes: Italian sonnet (as well as title) inspired by "To one who has been long in city pent" by John Keats.
Challenge: #48 Picture #95
Summary: A picnic after the Hiatus.
To one who has grieved long for loss of friend
‘Tis bliss to sit and look upon the cloud
Whose shape by rays of hidden sun is shroud
Gold in the joy of a Lazarus end.
The blades of meadow green between us mend
Between our fingertips they twine and crowd
The petals soft, sharp flecks of yellow proud
Do dance on rolling hills where shepherds tend.
Resting aside him whom I hold most dear
Basking in paschal warmth undeserved
Blessing all, and being blessed in turn, here
Like birdsong the heart sings unreserved
For ‘not dead, but sleepth’ is ancient cheer
That shines through pastoral majesty.
Holmes’s eyes dance ‘cross the note-book page more than once, then darted toward me. His lower lip quivered. Then his expression changed.
No, his expression fell.
I suppose it might have been likened an avalanche of rock or snow.
His stoic calm simply collapsed, slid down his chiseled features until it was seen no more.
And he began to weep.
He tipped towards me, shaking with sobs, until his temple touched my shoulder. The damp of his tears bled through my simple shirt.
I made noises of comfort, not to halt the flow, but rather to reassure him that I loved him, in spite of the tears and because of them.
I placed a hand on his head and began to stroke his hair and, in a while, he sniffed and raised himself to sitting.
I proffered a handkerchief and somewhere in the folds of the cambric, he ironed his countenance into its customary lines and planes.
He exhaled deeply as he surveyed the landscape. Then, with a quick glance at the note-book, which I’d placed on the grass between us, he said,
“You wrote it while I was napping.”
“You have to admit, my dear Holmes, it would be difficult not to wax poetic on this beautiful day in this beautiful place,” I made a wide gesture which encompassed the clouds and sun and green meadow and yellow flowers and rolling hills and what remained of our picnic lunch, “and I so very happy to be with you again.”
“I am happy, too.” He pressed his lips together, then spoke with a tremour of anxiety. “There are moments, however, my dear Watson, when I think myself unworthy of such happiness.”
“I thought similar about myself. But then I ask, ‘Wasn’t I unworthy of the misery, too?’ and banish notions of worth. I’d rather set my mind to deciding if that cloud there,” I pointed, “looks more like a sea creature or a spleen.”
“Horseshoe crab?”
“Yes!”
He smiled, then opened the note-book and tapped at my scratchings.
“May I keep it?”
“Of course. It is yours.”
He nodded, then searched for, and found, a penknife amongst his scattered belongings. I watched as he made a seasoned surgeon’s job of removing the page. Then he folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.
“Thank you, Watson.”
“My pleasure, Holmes.”
no subject
Date: 2019-01-03 09:34 pm (UTC)Some favourite lines:
‘Tis bliss to sit and look upon the cloud
Whose shape by rays of hidden sun is shroud
Gold in the joy of a Lazarus end.
For ‘not dead, but sleepth’ is ancient cheer
That shines through pastoral majesty.
Then his expression changed. No, his expression fell. I suppose it might have been likened an avalanche of rock or snow. His stoic calm simply collapsed, slid down his chiseled features until it was seen no more.
I proffered a handkerchief and somewhere in the folds of the cambric, he ironed his countenance into its customary lines and planes.
“There are moments, however, my dear Watson, when I think myself unworthy of such happiness.” “I thought similar about myself. But then I ask, ‘Wasn’t I unworthy of the misery, too?’ and banish notions of worth. I’d rather set my mind to deciding if that cloud there,” I pointed, “looks more like a sea creature or a spleen.” “Horseshoe crab?” “Yes!”
no subject
Date: 2019-01-03 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-06 08:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-06 03:44 pm (UTC)