Leaden, William proceeded to clip wings.
The green was full of them,
Horrible, writhing pinions describing all God's directions at once,
Sending up a stink so powerful it became sound,
The sound of the One Name:
FILTH!
He set to his task, teeth irritated by tuna strands,
The bagel having been too sweet also,
Causing him to retch as Wing Juice slithered, steaming onto his ballet slipper.
Poor William, they thought,
The others who had gathered to eat by the Kirk,
He'll never get that done before he needs to be back at his desk!

Javier was lost down at Middle Temple.
He asked for the venue of the marriage of Squaffle Horse.
He was faced with fifty-two identical buildings and laughed
starry eyed
At the foolishness of what he was doing.
Having composed himself, he asked a porter about the venue.
The porter looked at him with such suspicion that Javier laughed again,
Laughter becoming dance, gleeful and terrifying.
In the end, he had to be restrained.
Luckily, the area was crawling with policemen in disguise.

The peace of a week deepened, shattering and shattered
By long grasses and low old fountains,
Recumbent newspapers and supplements
Just touching in the shade of an Alder,
The best bits being shared back and forth
In that unusual shape of time of day,
Indwelling quietly wondering admiring wondering
Until the flags are up, cooling in the evening
And time has come to go home on soft tyres.