Early morning sunshine gave way to chill wind and grey skies as the hour drew near.
In the distance the sound of pipes, then the dull rhythm of footsteps marching up the street.
From the east came the veterans, a fading generation, faces grim with sober memory.
From the north came the school children, orderly in rank and file, innocent in years.
Other citizens stood waiting at the cenotaph, a thousand strong, in muted tones.
Flags rattled coldly, snapping in the wind. The sky grew blacker. Snow began falling softly.
Trumpets blew, words were spoken, eulogies recited, honor paid.
Heads bowed.
Silence.
Heads raised.
Eyes searched other eyes, souls touching souls, the ritual drawing to a close, clouds parting, sun breaking through, warmth and healing energy.
"Sir," cried a young boy.
"Sir, you've lost your poppy," he said, stooping to pick it up.
The boy handed the poppy to the man in uniform next to him, who turned and pinned it on the bare spot over my heart.
