I am sitting on a wooden bench in the park of the fountains

It is a beautiful June day with a gentle caressing southerly breeze

 

This park received one of the first direct hits on the city

And is now no more than a giant crater full of the detritus of war

 

You arranged to meet me on the sycamore crossing near the large fountain

How beautiful you looked in your gossamer white cotton dress

 

From my position in the truncated lane I can see the warehouse shadows

I knew some of these people from when I worked in the park in previous years

 

Do not cover your happy eye you said from behind your colourful mask

As your sad eye brings you nothing but pain and no longer fit for proper use

 

But this was a request that I was unable to understand fully

As my reality was by now fractured and was unlikely to survive