Moriarty by Keiron Tonge

Figures in the night, drifting.
And a whisper of cigar smoke on the breeze.
Hanging there like a word unspoken.
Words to make the bravest freeze.

The glowing ash dropping to the ground,
Falling, spiralling onto leather boots.
The two men faced each other.
They stood on the corner wearing suits.

One of them with a revolver drawn,
The shaking barrel glinting in the half light.
His face covered with steely resolve.
Not an ounce of any emotion but spite.

The other man, considerably taller, smiled.
Standing tall in his deerstalker he lit his pipe.
Devoid of pomp and circumstance he breathed heavily.
Deep eyes over a hawked nose lit up, waiting for the moment to be ripe.

His opponent dressed in black, gun in hand.
Stood like a column eyes fixed on his mark.
Behind him in the darkness another figure stirred.
Two fingers grappled to reach triggers, hark.

A shot rang out and the man in black fell with the same look upon his face.
Two other figures converged shaking hands and an exchange of words.
As the man lay dying on the ground his revenge unresolved.
Watson and Holmes retired from his side, leaving him to the birds.

As the sun rose he was no longer there, a nameless grave was erected.
Two mourners at a wordless sermon, they shed no tears.
One with hawk-like features, the other short and stout.
Paying their last respects to a foe with no fears.

Another foe left behind in the dust with no fight.
The cobbles free of terrors for another night.
Restless, Holmes stands in the window with his violin.
Just to play a little ditty before the next hunts begin.

A gentleman’s pursuit…

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