While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,Or maybe John Clare, with his great eye for details and his strange moves into transcendence, is an even better poet for this. One of his autumn poems evokes the way light changes how we see and reminds us that seeing is a relationship, not a fact.
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue...
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,The pictures I took today with a new camera! What a treat to be able to do so.
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.