by Robert Lewis Weeks

    Panther lies next to Wharncliffe

    and Wharncliffe next to Devon

    and Devon next to Delorme.

    In each a single fisherman casts

    in the slow， black water of the Big Sandy.

    Catfish is the whisker lurking

    behind the bobbing cork.

    He lives， it seems， in dense night

    from day to day until the fisherman

    from Wharncliffe pulls him out

    to be fried in tin-roof， tarpaper shacks

    from there to Matewan.

    Politicians call this valley

    a depressed area.

    But， under the sun， my heart

    will not have it so.

    Straight up from the brackish water，

    up the mountainside， green pointed trees

    as close as bird's wings

    grow fierce and clean，

    and then for miles beside the tracks

    the river moves faster over the rocks

    and the water isn't black at all——

    only the silt underneath.

    The water over the rocks

    is running clear and cold and pure.