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a singer songwriter up here in New England that i really like is Dave Mallett
he wrote an amazing song about watching his childhood home, a farm, burn down when struck by lightning.
It's the last week in June,
near the first quarter moon,
And the summer is coming down warm.
And the corn's in the ground
and the vane's turnin' round,
As it tells of an on-comin' storm.
Now there's four of us home,
but we're not quite alone,
There's a host of ghosts livin' upstairs.
For a house doesn't shelter
and then let ya pass,
After standin' for two hundred years.
Now the cows in the meadow,
a sleepy-eyed mother.
Her calf stands at tether inside.
The barn swallows carry their
bricks and their mortar.
And the big door is swung open wide.
This place is like tinder,
the timbers are dry.
There's dust on the rafters and beams.
But the buildings'll stand.
They've been graced by the hands of
the ones who were building their dreams.
Now up from the north there's
a black cloud a rollin',
And another rolls in from the west.
Oh Lord, we need rain or we've planted in vain.
So just quench us and we'll do the rest.
The weepin' old willow,
that stands in the yard,
Sways back and forth in the breeze.
There's a rumble of thunder,
and the rain falls so hard,
Abringin' the drought to its knees.
My Grandfather worked here,
with his family beside him,
And God knows how many before.
And how many babies,
and how many wives,
Their footsteps are worn in the floor.
There's a silence that falls,
in the midst of a storm,
As the elements wait and decide
to unleash their forces on
mortals like me,
Or to move on and let us survive.
Now crash like a sound
like I never have heard,
Like a cannon from Uncle John's war.
My father and brother,
they head for the stairway,
And I shudder and head for the door.
Now off the back door-step,
the air has an odor of brimstone.
The rain is gone round.
And off to my right,
I am blind by the sight of the
arc of the barn burnin' down.
And there's fire, fire,
out in the barn, Father,
Fire in the chicken house, too.
And the flames run so high
they are scorchin' the sky.
And there's not a damn thing we can do.
Now the sparks from the hay-mow,
they light on the cedar, dry
shingles that cover the shed.
And nothing is sacred,
and nothing is saved,
"Cause there's fire and there's
flames to be fed.
The clock in the kitchen
says quarter past three,
As the gates are flung open from hell.
And time here is frozen,
the clock ticks no more.
Just the ashes and the cinders and smell.
And there's fire, fire,
out in the barn, Father,
Fire in the chicken house, too.
And the flames run so high
that they're scorchin' the sky.
And there's not a damn thing we can do.
Just take what you can carry,
and leave all the rest.
Leave Grandmother's four-poster bed.
‘Cause it's too big to haul,
and the doorway's too small,
And there's a black cloud of
smoke overhead.
Take some china, some old
things, that can't be replaced
Take a chair and the clothes
on our backs.
The roof tumbles in.
There's a smudge on your chin,
You better stay outside,
don't go back.
And there's fire, fire,
out in the barn, Father,
Fire in the chicken house, too.
And the flames run so high
they are scorchin' the sky.
And there's not a damn thing we can do.
It's the last week in June,
near the first quarter moon,
And the summer is coming down warm.
And the corn's in the ground
and the vane's turnin' round,
As it tells of an on-comin' storm.
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