Being Gerard de Nerval in Wareham, taking two lobsters for a walk ...

Whilst idly reading about French romantic poets, I came upon Gerard de Nerval - I was much taken with the image of the poet taking his pet lobster, Thibault, for a walk - I pictured the lobster, at the end of a blue silk ribbon, scuttling along, greeting passing flaneurs with a wave of its claws - I imagined myself rescuing Nerval from his poverty and despair - I would be like John Morgan with Coleridge -

Should poets look different I wondered - were lobsters, or crumpled, cigarette ash smeared, suits called for? I thought of poets I had seen, in photographs, or in Southsea pubs - Dylan Thomas looked like a raddled clever cherub, the young Cavafy like a delicate accountant -

Whenever I saw Maggie Sawkins, I was conscious of her wicked smile - I imagined her snaring words like birds - I always thought Richard should be reclining in a rattan chair, under a tropical sky -

But when I looked into the window display of The Salt Pig, I saw two bold lobsters - they stretched out their long claws upon crushed ice -

I imagined taking both lobsters for a walk through Wareham - I would order a pint of Old Thumper in The Black Bear - my lobsters would be christened Siegfried and Baruch - they would sip shandy - members of the Wareham Camera Club would bow their heads - I would look at my reflection in a mirror - there is a poet I would think -