In praise of... city sky slices

I've just enjoyed a weekend in Ely, in Cambridgeshire, driving there and back under brilliant blue skies filled only with sunshine. And skies are one of the first things I notice whenever I drive out of London into the countryside - or rather, I notice how wide they become. Wider and wider they stretch, elongated clouds sweeping across the expanse, dropping down into an unsegmented horizon, bordered by trees and punctured only by the occasional church spire or pylon. And if I go to the coast they stretch even further into the sea's infinity, literally as far as the eye can see.

City skies also spread, of course, but back home I don't always see this, except along the river, or above commons or broad suburban roads. Where I live, it's the buildings which stretch, plate glass reflecting clouds and glowing gold in sunshine, but thrusting and cutting into the sky nonetheless. Looking up, as I walk along the road, the sky appears in segments and wedges, boundaried by zigzagging rooftops, eaten into by high buildings. Hemmed in at times, and narrow - no grand, panoramic, photogenic vistas, just slices of sky. 

And yet... and yet... One recent evening, as sometimes happens, I headed along the Broadway towards King Street, and into the gloriously setting sun. And yes; the sky was just a slice, and the lampposts and traffic lights intruded (in a way that the trees didn't!), whichever way I turned... But for a full moment, as I gazed into radiance and gold, funnelling into its own infinity, I knew - just knew - that in this sliver dwelt all of God's glory, and everlasting, uncontained presence. 

Truly, God is in this place (Genesis 28. 16)... whether all I can see of the sky is a sliver, or its span...