Today is a day I have lived several times before
Tomorrow is a journey never taken
Gone, gone are the ghost hour chit-chats
The sun rises and dresses each forest tree
In an emerald green dress fit for a queen
The birds chirp their mysterious tune
“To whom,” I assume, “it concerns.”
Gone, gone are the winter chills
That still the mighty sea of trees
But come again, oh come again
The June nights of Jubilee
The campfire dances fervently
As the lightening bugs try to capture flickers
In vain work they try to make the world brighter
Then, in the quiet hours after midnight
The wolves wail out in song
A solemn chill reverberates through the air
There in my heart stirs the remeberence
And warning of winter nights passed and to come
But here, in the warmth of the slow, steady fire
I sleep soundly, prepared to meet the oncoming autumn once again
Come and gone, come and gone
Such is my soul
The day is April 23rd, 2017. It’s an ordinary Sunday afternoon in London.
The crowd bustles, trains whirr, birds chirp.
Life in the city is business as usual.
Three teenage girls take photographs outside 187 North Gower Street, soaking in the ambiance of the Sherlock set. They step into Speedy’s for a cup of coffee.
The women lament over the loss of their favorite show. On March 8th, the BBC announced Sherlock would not be returning for a fifth series, and cowriters Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss were quick to assure their fans that it was time to lay the beloved program to rest.
But what the women saw next changed their lives forever.