One of those mornings, and the sky is down,
hanging from wires and the old brigades,
gently blurring the edges of the town.
People gather quietly, in the rain.

Some for the hundredth time, while others test
their mettle, holding fast as the black wave
comes on – the final straw, relentless,
its dreadful symmetry rending again

a place whose high street is that of the world,
that of humanity on days like these.
We cry into our coffee, but a girl,
twenty, broken, finds the strength to throw a wreath.

The sodden flags bow as one like dock cranes.
People honour quietly, in the rain.