The Waning.

And there he was.
Gathering droplets, wet ,
of days gone by;
each trickle forsooth
a promised quenching.
Days on days ,years on years,
shaping, a bucket green,
of soft-gleaned strawlets made.
Then saw ,reflected,
in that darkling gloam,

that shimmering whirl,
his crescent moon..
A sudden storm, a thunderclap.
No bucket . No moon in the bucket.
Emptiness in his hand....