Evening

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Eventide slithers, a torrent
of deep darkness
onto the skyline -
distant, nearer,
now within grasp.
Then, a sooty shaft of light
rises, dominances trussed
to the sky by the tinkle
of silvery lustre.
Skulk towards it, then hasten
your stride -
reaching out for handfuls
of stars, the is and the was
of fervour -
like the discerning, then
the having had held:
this is the what of vanishing.