The Poet and the Photographer
Were walking close at hand;
They smiled like anything to see
A Dorset beach of sand:
‘If only we could capture this,’
They said, ‘it would be grand!’
‘The time has come,’ the Poet said,
‘To talk without winces:
Of shingle — and ships — and income tax —
Of sea-kelp — and Princes —
And why the sea is gently warm —
And what colour are blues rinses.’
‘But wait a bit,’ the shingle cried,
‘Before your lens us encapture;
For some will move around,
So, the photo better capture!’
‘No hurry!’ said the Photographer.
They thanked her with such rapture.
‘O Chesil Beach,’ said the Photographer,
‘What rare natural beauty!
Shall we be trotting home again?
And have crumpets for our tea?’
No answer from the stones, because
They’d all gone out to sea.
‘If a hundred men with a hundred words
Wrote for all the year,
Do you suppose,’ the Poet said,
‘They would capture the atmosphere?’
‘I doubt it,’ said the Photographer,
And took a souvenir.
If all the men with all the words
Were to write as any rebel,
And all the lenses that went click,
Increased photos by the treble —
‘Nothing,’ said the Photographer,
Would compare with this pebble.’
For Photographers come and Poets go
And their pictures and words remain,
And some are very beautiful
And some are simply plain
‘But nothing,’ said the Photographer,
Matches nature’s own domaine.’