FIRE
(David Mallett)

It's the last week in June near the first quarter moon.
Summer is coming down warm.
The corn's in the ground. The vane's turning round.
It tells of an oncoming storm.
There's four of us home but we're not quite alone.
There's a host of ghosts living upstairs,
For a house doesn't shelter and then let you pass
After standing for 200 years.

The cow's in the meadow, a sleepy-eyed mother.
Her calf stands at tether inside.
The barn swallows carry their bricks and their mortar.
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 will 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-rolling.
Another rolls in from the west.
O Lord, we need rain or we've planted in vain,
So, just quench us and we'll do the rest.
The weeping old willow that stands in the yard,
It sways back and forth in the breeze.
There's a rumble of thunder. The rain falls so hard,
Bringing the drought to its knees.

My grandfather worked here, his family beside him.
God knows how many before,
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 that I never had heard,
Like a cannon from Uncle John's war.
My father and brother they head for the stairway.
I shudder and head for the door.
Now, off the back doorstep the air has that odor
Of brimstone. The rain has gone round
And off to my right. I am blind by the sight
Of the arc of the barn burning down.

There's fire, fire out in the barn, father,
Fire in the chicken house too.
The flames run so high they are scorching the sky
And there's not a damn thing we can do.
The sparks from the haymow they light on the cedar,
Dry shingles that cover the shed.
Nothing is sacred, no, nothing is saved.
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,
But time here is frozen; the clock ticks no more,
Just the ashes the cinders and smell.
Just take what you can carry. Leave all the rest.
Leave grandmother's four-poster bed.
It's too big to haul and the doorway's too small.
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 crumbles 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 main house too,
And the flames run so high they are scorching the sky
And, there's not a damn thing we can do.

It's the last week in June near the first quarter moon.
Summer is coming down warm.
Corn's in the ground. The vane's turning round
As it tells of an oncoming storm.

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