Figure D9 STRIKE

Northward to a garden, spare and clean,

Where, between raked vortices of sand,

Bare branches, with a smooth and glassy sheen,

But neither twig nor leaf, solemnly stand,

For these trunks are the marks of Zeus’ hand

Where lightning-blast has fused the very quartz

To stony columns: wind erodes the land

And leaves behind as FULGURITE the sports

Of ancient thunderclaps’ most echoing reports.