The creek still sings the same old song
Through sycamore and stone,
And mist still wraps the mountains blue
Each morning soft and lone.

The church bell calls on Sunday morn,
Its voice rides ridge to ridge,
But fewer boots come through the door,
Or cross the weathered bridge.

The coal trucks quit their rumblin’ years,
The tipples stand like ghosts,
And weeds have claimed the railroad beds
Where whistles once rang most.

Old Mama sits upon the porch
With quilts upon her knees,
And watches taillights disappear
Beyond the chestnut trees.

One boy went south for factory work,
One west where deserts shine,
A daughter found a city life
Beneath electric signs.

They call back home on holidays,
Their voices warm and kind,
But mountains hold a different time
Than places left behind.

The schoolhouse echoes louder now,
Its playground swings at rest,
And rows of houses on the hills
Stand quiet, vacant, blessed.

Yet still the dogwoods bloom each spring,
The whip-poor-wills still cry,
And sunsets paint the ancient peaks
With fire across the sky.

The land remembers every name
That’s drifted with the years;
It gathers them like autumn leaves
And keeps them safe and near.

For though the young may wander far
Where wider roads may run,
The mountains wait with patient hearts
For every absent son.

And every daughter, too, someday,
May feel that pull once more—
The call of creek and winding road,
And home behind the door.