My son sits on my lap, wide eyed, eagerly awaiting paternal commands.
Pressing PC keys, and pushing PC buttons, guided by my hands.
Startup rituals, interspaced with exclamations, of don’t touch!, and scolding tut tuts.
His excitement and wonderment, as refreshing as the breeze, on an ionic sea.
While dial up birds, on shores, squawking static tones, tweet out technologies.
Expectations of connections, to faraway hubs, or hang ups.
We wait while time whizzes, centrifuged, before the opening of digital doors
To his favourite sites, mine crafts and songs sang along with Balamory.
Playing Nizlopi’s JCB, yelling ‘don’t forget your shovel if you want to go to work!’ .
Before interruptions, break the precious bond, that was digitally forged.
To review, inert spreadsheets and graphs, the adult world of the fiscally engorged.
While he cries tries and sighs pushing keys, attempting a digital usurp.
Somehow unbeknownst, over time, imperceptible to the paternal eye.
My son now swims unaided, confidence with every stroke, at one, with wi-fi.
Forging ahead, ploughing his own trough, writing the codes for his new episodes
The future, a fulcrum, him, the digital native, versus me, now, the refugee
Who sits, looking lost, baulking blankly at these new found abilities.
At his digital competence, versus my analogue impotence, that fails to download.
Now, it is I who sits, alongside my man son, who swims ably, in the sea of technology.
I, now stumble, over keyboard prompts, languishing in the digital doldrums, of inability.
While now his patience erodes, and frustration grows at every failed try.
Blank looks, lost memories of processes, amnesia bound for digital distresses.
Floundering in the sea, technically, adrift from on line access.
It is he, who now, must attempt the rescues, tutting and sighing at his instructions gone awry.
DoubleSpeak 