Dr Rowan Williamsís massive ornate eyebrows precede him. They rise and arch, undulating with the knowledge bestowed upon them. As the wave of a magician's wand precedes a trick, so the flourish of the Bishopís brow proceeds a doctrinal proclamation. But unlike the magicianís blunt stick the Bishopís brow is sharp, like a cheese wire brush. Sharp enough to slice a schism in the fabric of the Church.
Unseeing they sweep before the Bishop filtering the air for for particles of theocratic detritus. When they trap precious particles of God plankton they funnel it straight into the mind of the eminent clergyman.
They twitch, faster than the human eye can register, searching for resonance. When they find it they sing, humming like the reed of a piccolo, with the mysterious song of the creator.
They are his horns. Bestowed upon him by God, not the horns of a goat, but the feathered horns of a wise owl. Worn not on the top of the head, but on the face, either side of the mind's chakra. A tool for guidance, not violence. A sixth sense, like the whiskers of a cat.
The Bishop's brow. Mystical, musical, filter feeding, tickle whisker, face horns. A brow bestowed by God upon only the most divine of men.