the illusion

The illusion  In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines  in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce The Mesen who owned the factories had created this park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons. The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work A boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated. The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal   When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood. No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.