The hills this morning were just soft grey suggested shapes seen through drizzle. When I was in my late teens, I walked into London from my home on the western edge of he conurbation, and passed Wormwood Scrubs and all that stuff around there in the drizzle. It all had a stately, softened kind of beauty, and that includes the railway sidings and all the other stuff in the neighbourhood. In many respects, I like drizzle. Less enthusiastic, though, about its effects on my glasses and its dampening of the undergrowth.
We praise you God,
for the downbeat beauties of the planet,
for drizzle,
for the dark moorland,
for the grey, unceasing sea,
for tattered saplings growing bravely
in abandoned car parks,
for the moon
half-covered by cloud.
Let all creation praise you,
our God and our Maker.