The heavens seemed to be crying. Rain, like tears, gently fell. The gray skies cast a mourning gloom. The bustle of the city gave way to a solemn reverence.
The Remembrance Day crosses stood in perfect rows. Each cross memorialized one of Great Britain’s fallen warriors. A name had been written on each of the wooden crosses. Poppies decorated many of them too creating a colorful field of red against the green grass and autumn leaves on the lawn of Westminster Abbey.
On the sidewalks, old men adorned with military metals pinned on their chest clustered about the crosses. They spoke in whispers to honor, to perhaps whisper a name known to them, to remember those who sacrificed their lives for the Crown.
Remembrance Sunday is a nationwide commemorative occasion to honor the dead and wounded in the two world wars and other conflicts. It is held on the nearest Sunday to November 11th annually. My trip to London coincided with this observance. I walked among the crosses but I did not attend the Remembrance Sunday ceremonies marked by the Queen placing a wreath of poppies at the Cenotaph in Whitehall.