A state you must dare not enter
with hopes of staying,
quicksand in the marshes, and all
the roads leading to a castle
that doesn't exist.
But there it is, as promised,
with its perfect bridge above
and its doors forever open.
The evening Sherlock knows for certain that something is profoundly not as it should be follows on the heels of the kind of gloriously perfect midsummer day that he is certain can only
be properly appreciated by retirees from a lifetime of bustle in the city—those who have seen a retreating horizon of grey drizzle, noise, and smog give way to the deep,
unspeakable pleasure of a day spent in the garden under high white clouds adrift in a delicately blue sky.
Sherlock spent that day bathed in the gentle warmth of a temperate English sun, breathing air that was fragrant with earth and blossom, alive to a lightly ruffling breeze,
the gliding chirrups of house martins, and the industry of his bees.
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