Brother and sister

Running through the Grassmarket as the rain lashed down, softly on the last day of the first week of June- your winter Sunday ways (only known to me in the past tense; as a child-with dolls taught to live in your colour-coded world) have began to pirouette all around of me, again. But there is still,(somehow) a wee yellow haired boy, stood- like a big tall oak, on ancient cobbles; beside me.
With his hand in mine, rubbing away my tears with fingers covered in spaghetti hoops and fairy-liquid;
blowing bubbles.