momentaria

The horses walk over and wait to be stroked.
They know by their very being that they praise the creator and they bring joy to his creation.
The sky touches the Wicklow mountains.
The wind whispers the good news.
This earthly amphitheatre of rock and scree and forest and rivers is a mighty cathedral of light and grace and hope and blessing.
The very air is holy.
I can almost hear the great black preacher Bishop George Bloomer proclaiming in his magnificent cadences:
"Satan will not define me. This is not the place of my defeat. This is the place where God has made me a king over the mountains."
And hours earlier back in the city Bainsy had leaned across the table and demanded: "What about evolution? What about Dawkins?"
And I had answered: "If evolution was true in the atheistic sense, our magnificent conversation, our weighing of ideas, our back and forth of mystique insight, everything we say and everything Mr Dawkins says would be nothing more than a herd of bullocks going Mooooooooooooooooo at each other in the twilight. Mr Dawkins doesn't even believe that himself."