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Yield.
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The waning Moon makes way for passing
clouds, in a clear night sky must yield.
And in turn the sign at the crossing
in another’s glow, says Yield.
In a hospital memory stirring
now, she’s offered brief reprieve or yield.
On her hospice bed she’s asking
“Me”, if I mind if she should yield?!
When these dark nights come haunting
again, dare I even think to yield?
The things of this world are fleeting,
Life is the time to learn to yield.
While here again Gion is scribbling
rhymes, heedless of the time to yield.
©Fergus Carty 2020