Tourists would photograph
The sky’s long ribs in their eagerness 
     To snatch the whole 
Sense of the world. Yet one can see they miss
The spiralled twisting of a barberpole,
The autumn woods in their full leaflessness,
The clown’s gigantic gloom and sudden laugh,
The engine’s surge of steam and rising hiss,
                   And man’s dim soul

     That hides under the skin.
With thoroughness they aim their sight,
     Near the bronzed cliff,
At what they’ve never seen and can’t take back
As property or purchase. But the slight
Yellow on gannet’s wings when spread out stiff
Before skimming the water seems a sin,
A waste of nature on the film they crack
                   With awed delight.