RICHARD TILLINGHAST
A Visit
Mud spattered th e w indshield of my rental car.
Wh en I as ked w here she was buried, a memory fell
Li ke shade across th e face of the woman w ho li ved
In w hat had been the ga te lodge - th en a smil e,
A shy welcome, and she po inted th e way to th e churchya rd.
T hen a child ca ll ed her, so there was no t a soul
Betwee n me and the sand-bl asted spire o f the Protestant church .
Th e shape of her headsto ne , beveled like the gable
Of a Dutch canal-h o use, was, like her handwriting,
C haractered but unobtrusive. Th e li chened marble
Put me in mind o f the mo ttled green Parker with w hi ch
She used to write. T he do ll's-house o f a school
Stood o ut from the cho ir of th e church , w here J oseph in hi s coa t
Of many colo rs was first betrayed , where Mary
" Kept all these thin gs and pondered th em in her hea rt."
I pee red into th ose depth s, thro ugh cobwebbed glass
Where desks swam in the green o f a river twili ght.
T humbtac ked to th e wall was a snapsho t of her ho use,
Gone now, and th e print of a Pre-Raphaelite
Madonna and child. My neglect - I had let her grow old! -
Burn ed in my face, ac knowledged now fo r the first time.
She was Mary in th e painting, I was th e child -
I coul d see that now - nurtured and wondered at.
Un grate ful , and leaving already, I had struggled
T o step o fT into an air beyond her containment.
No thing stirred in that churchyard , o r gave th e sli ghtest impress io n
Her sto ry and mine impinged on the afternoon .
I turn ed away, walked bac k to my ca r -
Warn ed o fT by a treeful of rooks - and drove o ut th e gate.
How lo ng it takes us to become w ho we are!
