The Black Seam

Down where the crooked ridges rise
and hollers twist below,
the black seam runs beneath the hills
where old time miners go.

The tipple stands above the creek,
its timbers dark with rain,
and every board remembers well
the men who sought the vein.

A whistle once could wake the town
before the dawn was red,
the miners took their lamps below
while supper waited ahead.

The company store kept tally marks,
the preacher knew each name,
and every porch along the road
had someone tied to coal's dark claim.

Then years rolled on like water,
and mining left its scar,
the tracks grew cold, the tipple aged,
the towns forgot how loud they were.

Yet when the mountain weather turns
and thunder shakes the pine,
there's something in that hollow still,
the black seam of the old mine.