For the dverse prompt.
Blue of fire
Blue is the last to go,
when the waltzing pinks and whites and golds
are cold and grey with shadows,
and mist rising, dew dropping,
drained of day-life,
still as the ocean bottom.
I watch for pike where magpies waddled.
Above a wash of water-blue,
the set sun, lingering by proxy,
pricked and pierced
by the jagged light of stars,
reefs in the deeps
where satellites float in their lonely glitter,
pretending to be meteorites or asteroids,
expensive toys lost in space,
where blue is fire.