The sheer scale of it, that when
you stood next to it your head
came to about a fifth of the chair height
had me thinking that this was the desk
of a London literary giant, maybe
we better leave before he finds us.

But the table top being empty, now
that was tempting, as was the chair
pushed dead centre beneath, which
seemed to be saying the giant
was finished, it could be mine
if I learned mountaineering

and as you reminded me later
in the pub, we’d taken some trouble
to see it, walking on Hampstead Heath
unsure of where we were going in drizzle
and fading light, so I was already
showing signs of commitment.

Just forget that I laughed over
S.H. who’d already visited
with a black marker pen and written
Woz ’ere on a table leg; this need
to leave some words behind
not unlike a dog pissing up a tree.