They say it takes at least six months,
it’s too late for me to get a passport.
I won’t be flying to Belfast, renting a car
or driving to the countryside of Armagh.
It’s too late to marvel at rustic cottages,
old stone churches and wooly sheep
grazing on the famous green hillsides.
It’s too late to stop at the pub for a pint
and ask directions to the road where his
home is found nestled among the trees.
In the movies, I would’ve driven up and
found him in the front yard raking, playing
with his border collie, wearing a sweater
like the men in Irish Spring commercials.
It’s too late to hear his jovial voice or how
he greeted us all - “Good to see you Lad!”