Yellow Miracles

A damp, foggy, grey day is nothing unusual for London in late November. Perched atop the hill at Greenwich, I survey the sun that struggles to pierce through the grey clouds with the useless bravery of a dog that barks at passersby through the iron bars of a tall gate. Far away in the horizon, I can see just the tips of the skyscrapers that line Canary Wharf, swathed in mist, as if those buildings belong to their own parallel universe. Suddenly, the air lightens up as sunshine floods the hill, descending as a miracle hand that sweeps open a curtain to reveal the Thames, the ships that line the harbour and the spires of tall churches. Everyone around me gives an audible sigh of joy and putters around with renewed energy. Nowhere else have I seen sunshine being almost revered as a religion. I join in the prayer.