Where there was rain, now rests a lake;
once pedestrian, now reflective.
What was once all surface, is now deep.
What mysteries in the minds of men?
This water may well muddy,
but our thoughts need not.
To Conan Doyle, an enquiring mind,
who questioned as much as answered,
who spoke up when injustice reigned,
whose words enthralled the world.
magination shines a path through fog.
So wrap warm London: the game is afoot.
Not the Reichenbach where Holmes took a spill;
in the heart of South Norwood, Doyle ponders still.