The rain falls softly and the traffic lights continue through their cycle.
The notes of Nimrod reach out into the stillness as the freshly fallen leaves drift down among the bowed heads.
The trumpets calls Last Post;
the lines are said
Uniforms, young and old step forward
one by one they leave their crimson rings, the gathered hushed.
The skirl of the pipes breaks forth,
a plane roars overhead
the community are called back from remembrance to the present.