A Sighting in Tipperary

Abstract

A Sighting in Tipperary Richard Tillinghast (bio) I picture us walking up the pathon one of our rambles to see the old church—roofless to heaven, apostolic yet pagan,whatever glass may have lighted its windowsgone centuries ago, the tawny sandstonechiseled crudely but not without art,chinked with accidents of limestone, some the grayof the distant sea, some porphyry, some smoky blue,made softer by the softness of the day,a farmhouse in the distance, a field being ploughed. Then comes the rain in earnest, and we hoistour umbrellas to blunt it—and this is whenDennis appears, so now we are three.It’s the man himself, no one else like him,unmistakable in that tweed jacket he woreyear in, year out, the leather elbow patchescushioning his bony elbows, the sparse bearda shade greyer, but quick as he ever was,with the high-strung alertness he had when living.We struggle to mask our astonishment. He shies from our umbrella. The rain doesn’ttouch him, it’s unclear he even notices it.As a boy he cycled these very roadswith a book and an apple in his pocket.He could have told us about the round-arched doorwith its deep-chiseled design, the human headssculpted from limestone, unbaptized and angular—if the dead were allowed the privilege of speech. [End Page 395] And then a procession appears out of nowherecoming straight at us as they round the gable end,mourners all dressed in black, huddled againstthe downpour, black umbrellas glistening—all about them the solemnity, the fragrance,even, of ground dug deep and prayed over. It’s all of a piece—these mourners black as crowsamong the old graves, a priest in an overcoat.He speaks to Dennis in the island tongue.Where has he been off to? the old man asks.Dennis smiles, hesitates, but doesn’t answer.Perhaps this is what he has needed, to feelthis ground beneath his feet again, supposinghe can feel it. A bell tolls, the rain slackens,and then, like a rainbow that fades, he’s gone. [End Page 396] Richard Tillinghast RICHARD TILLINGHAST grew up in Memphis and studied writing with Andrew Lytle at Sewanee and Robert Lowell at Harvard. The author of 17 books of poetry and creative nonfiction, he now divides his time between Hawaii and Tennessee. His most recent book Blue If Only I Could Tell You, will be published by White Pine Press next year. Copyright © 2021 Richard Tillinghast