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.

    Catfish¹ is the whisker lurking²

    behind the bobbing cork³.

    He lives， it seems， in dense⁴ night

    from day to day until the fisherman

    from Wharncliffe pulls him out

    to be fried in tin-roof， tarpaper shacks⁵

    from there to Matewan.

    Politicians call this valley

    a depressed⁶ area.

    But， under the sun， my heart

    will not have it so.

    Straight up from the brackish⁷ water，

    up the mountainside， green pointed⁸ 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 silt⁹ underneath¹⁰.

    The water over the rocks

    is running clear and cold and pure.