Mistress Anne Pollard recalls
her late arrival in Boston:
"We ate the wild blueberries
that grow like dark underfur
in the tall grass on the slope of Fort Hill.
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The water had the bright taste
of moss and old stone, so sweet
after the brackish mudwells of Salem.
Hermit Blaxton regretted
he'd invited us; he liked
preaching to his bull, and much
preferred marsh grass to people.
Her removed down to the Narragansett,
bewailing his bad judgment:
'They dump their slops in the street.
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