He looks up at what pierces cloud,
but doesn’t know it’s epiphany—
this moment wind blows over sea
and dark’s forgiven in its tracks.

He sees the field a boy once ploughed,
nostrils piqued by blossoming flax,
and thinks the questions no one asks,
eyes mirroring eternity.

Beyond the headland waves break loud.
Once again Boreas smacks
his pale and hypothermic lips.

Summer suddenly turns to Fall.
Behind him now the sunken ships
will never take him home at all.

Leo Yankevich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/exile-7/