As far as I can remember, this is the first of my Chestnut Ridge poems I've shared with you. The central character in this piece is a bad-tempered British loyalist who is not too comfortable about sojourning in the wilds of colonial Pennsylvania.

Incident at Jacobs Creek

Dawn Potter

                       1775

Waiting for Mr. Crawford,

A dilatory man, like most I meet.

This be a country o’errun with Rascals,

Hot weather, and malevolent aspersions.

My late fatigues reduce me

To exceeding gloom.

The people here are Liberty mad.

So much impertinence:

I believe they suspect A Spy.

To distract, I toil up the mountain

With these lively Miss Crawfords.

We seek huckleberries,

A tedious fruit.

The girls laugh to see me whip forth

My pistol and shoot a Rattlesnake

Which had like to bite me.

Nothing but rogues in this country

And baleful heat without cease.

God save the King.

I am very uneasy to wait.

Again I ramble the wilds

With these Miss Crawfords,

But find myself weak.

The air of this Country is pestilent,

And its manners unwholesome as well.

When we come to cross a busy Creek,

I make wise motion to turn back.

Yet both glint-eyed damsels tuck

Their skirts above their knees

And ford the waters with indifference.

Every soul I meet is prejudiced

Against me. How to cherish the ladies

When even the maidens are Scoundrels?

[first published in Poetry Salzburg, spring 2012]