I'LL RIDE WITH YOU
The empty tomb is where the city grieves for its war dead on the one and only day of the year which has garnered significance: Anzac Day.
Rising slowly up to the east, Martin Place is now a pedestrian plaza flanked by the grand buildings of the old banks and insurance companies and at its crest meets the city's only boulevarde with the country's oldest hospital, Sydney Hospital, looking across and back down the slope.
We were in town today for a lunch, and encouraged by others, went to see. I'm glad we did. I was struck by bonds of it-could-have-been-anyone-of-us, and that they were one of us, and the importance of public grieving.
There was a steady stream, and endless stream, of people quietly and slowly arriving with flowers. Most were on their own and most were young. There was a calm. There was respect.
A unobtrusive man with a vest marked CHAPLIN mingled. There was time: time stilled, time taken and time lost. A group of religious clerics of all faiths stood in silent prayer before some lowered a flower into the sea.
Above, the Sydney sky was its usual brilliant blue, a flag at half mast.
The Lindt cafe beyond with its shattered glass secrets was secured by a black shroud.
Later that evening in the hazy light of the day's end, we watched a cruise ship sail away, another one about to arrive.