The nervous pecking energy of spring in the exquisite splendour of the wagtail on the tarmac, just flown from the med perhaps,

raised him from the winter sleep to see the dead short-eared kid grasped by him, may the peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, to make a likeness to the Companions of its lesser worth than the dunya,

and then back to the red smear of first-flush linden leaves and on back to Queen Consort Eleanor, as a likeness of early immigrants to England from Normandy,

only to demonstrate, he thought, how the people of the wool, deem the present time to be the Age of the Nafs, where the wagtail for many is one of 350 000000 and so not on the endangered list, and the kid is religious abstrusity, the linden leaves from a numbered tree, logged at the Amt, Eleanor a foreigner who led a crusade.

So he disappeared for a month or two, took a swim, unhinged himself from himself, and looked again at the wagtail who flew to the blue of the sky, again at the kid and the one who had grasped it, again at the linden to its winged, therapeutic, summery leaves and again at Eleanor’s  struggle prior to the parameters the Age of Nafs.