A mother maybe 25 child 3 he

A Mother, Maybe 25.
Child, Maybe 3.
He Swings On Municipal
As She Pulls And Pushes
And Blows Bubbles
(A Fairy Liquid Treat)
In The Grey Glenrothes Glaur.
Spheres Of Prismatic Sky
Drift Homeward,
As He Lifts His Wee Hams,
Up, Up-Â…
She Asks-–can You Catch One, Can You Touch One?
So He Tries
As They Rise,
His Tiny, Babbage-Confounding
Lost To Them,
Not Knowing Of, Not Seeing
The Passer-By,
As A Sneaky South-Westerly
Tantalizes-Â…whines And Whistles,
-Go On, Catch Me! (Dying) ,
-Go On, Touch Me! (Death) .
Poor Wee Soul, Its
His Only Goal,
As The Cosmos Stands
Fast, And Slower Than Life,
The Higher Those Spectrummed Orbs
(Refracting, Distracted) ,
The Remoter The Chance Of
We Have All Sat On That
Unknowing, Unseeing,
As Our Futures Breezed Into
Not Yet Knowing That,
Even As The Bubble
Is Touched,
It Is Gone