I remember the first time that I went back.
A warm summer's rain washing the remaining scotch
From the broken bottle at my feet.
I had found shelter in the old barn.
The loft still smelling of the freshly baled hay.
Sleep came fast, having consumed half the bottle that day.
Dreams of screams woke me, as I heard you shouting.
"They're in the wire!" "They're in the wire!"
The bright flash, shower of sparks, and thunderous roar!
My eyes now so wide open
As I watched the old apple tree in the glen.
The tree now broken, smoking, and slowly burning,
From the lightning strike.
Yes, that was the first time I went back.