Grief assailed me, unawares,
As much as I was unprepared,
While (much less) people (than imagined) stared.
A fountain outside became a memory,
Becoming another fountain inside of me,
A force so uncontrollable, from a depth so inconsolable,
Unreachable through human touch.
A violently tender expulsion, channelled through trembling shoulder convulsions.
Alien energy rose from my gut to my chest,
And clamped it hard, each breathe short and jarred.
Grateful I was, to the hard wooden bench I sank onto;
Grateful I was, to the anonymity of this urban London square,
where couples immersed in embrace,
dog owners were lost in chase,
and focused fitness regimes followers flurried and hurried past.
Grateful I was, to the squirrel perched on a stone.
Unaware, unaffected: Its preoccupation with survival itself a comfort.
Grateful too, for the incessant sound of the fountain,
Monotonously speaking its constant purpose:
Water forever lost and replaced; uncatchable, in the eternal flux of chase.