Omagh was the flower capital of the world at the weekend. Bunches of every kind of blossom were piled high around the bomb site. People picked their way through the bundles and wiped away a tear as they read the heartfelt messages.
Some of the bunches were arrayed behind proper flower-shop cellophane; others were clumsily gathered into humble plastic bags from the local supermarket. But each spoke the same message of heartbreak. "Wishing their absence was only a dream," said one. Another: "We weep for the innocents and the loss of our children's innocence. Signed: An Omagh Family".
In addition to the flowers there were scores and scores of teddy bears. Soft and cuddly, they were the kind teenage girls might give one another on their birthdays, along with the present and the card.
But the teenagers and other innocents who lost their lives in Omagh will, sadly, have no more birthdays. No more for them that magic day every year when friends rejoice and parents take pleasure and pride to see their youngster blossom and grow. Instead, there will be only one black date, August 15th, and it will forever be mired in sorrow and sadness. But if there was despair, there was also hope and uplift, notably in the song, Broken Things, so hauntingly rendered at the ceremony outside Omagh Courthouse by Ms Juliet Turner, who accompanied herself on the guitar. Written by Julie Miller, it was inspired by the Biblical message that the Lord is close to the broken-hearted and crushed in spirit. The words went:
You can have my heart,
if you don't mind broken things;
You can have my life if you don't mind
these tears;
Well, I heard that you make old things
new
So I give these pieces all to you
If you want it you can have my heart.
The singer's voice almost broke at one point, but her wonderful performance was the emotional high point of the day. People shed tears who had been crying all week and thought no more tears could come.
One is used to seeing politicians putting on an act, but even they could not be accused of fakery on a day of such deep and intense feeling. Bertie Ahern's face was contorted with grief; Liz O'Donnell wept freely; others such as the President, Mrs McAleese, John Hume and Dr Garret FitzGerald were obviously very moved.
Everyone, from church leaders and dignitaries to political figures as diverse as John Prescott, Peter Lilley, David Trimble, Seamus Mallon and Gerry Adams, had come to show their solidarity with grief-stricken Omagh. The Rev Kevin Mullan, eloquent as a prophet, summed up people's feelings best. "At this hour last Saturday," he said, "28 good and deeply-loved people, one carrying twins awaiting birth, were alive in these streets.
"Each of them, each of us, at this hour last Saturday had a future for some time on this Earth. But the future had already been brought among us. Evil had already possessed some human hearts and minds to do evil unto other human beings.
"At 10 minutes past three the future came. Death and life were blasted together. Death carried life and peace away. It searched for many more of us with its savage scorching breath. Its bloody greed was fought in the street and the hospital by those who love and treasure life and dearly loved the lives for whom they fought.
"Where this High Street becomes Market Street and from there to the Dublin Road corner, this space within our town where all our futures were changed one week ago is today a silent sanctuary of remembrance, sharing the silence of the inner sanctuaries of broken hearts and families."
There was a strong religious content to the ceremony as different denominations prayed for everyone, the victims, the bereaved, the community, the emergency and hospital services, social and community workers. Nothing like it had been seen on this island since the aftermath of Bloody Sunday, but now the two sides of the historic conflict were united in grief. There was no wailing or beating of breasts, but the depth of feeling could be gauged from the fact that several people collapsed under the weight of grief and had to receive emergency attention.
Afterwards, as the estimated 40,000 crowd dispersed, people lingered to read messages and look at the wreaths outside business premises down the street: killing shop assistants seemed a long way from the vision of Wolfe Tone.
The public grieving may be coming to an end, but for many the private sorrow will last for ever. But as families made their way home, some stopped to let their kids take a turn on the slides and swings in a local park, and the silence of the afternoon was broken by peals of childish laughter: even in griefstricken Omagh, life goes on.