Dripping wood

It was a visual riot in the woods this morning. At times the low sun was blinding and disorientating, as it found a way between the tree trunks; the next minute, as it was partly tamed, it revealed a crystal-like wonderland of water droplets suspended from branches, fern fronds and rose prickles. Turning round to avoid the glare, the wood suddenly lost all its mystery, exposed to a brutal, penetrating glare like a Hollywood film lot. My walk was not as relaxing as I'd hoped, as the woodland seemingly nature-shifted and I was not always sure whether it or I was changing.