Going Ancestral

A half-asleep horse,
a half-owned cart,
you at the reins,
something plain and to the point
painted on the side:
"We have the best bread",
"Fresh fish, reasonable prices",
"We sharpened Ivanhoe's sword".
When the cart turns into the street,
children look up and mock;
pinnied mothers and wives
rush out with their purses,
passing judgement on your goods
and on each other.
You know what a farthing is worth.
You are the tenth generation of
"So and So and Sons".
When the cart turns around to leave,
the modern world arrives, tooting.
Here, for the first time,
a vehicle with horse power
but no horses. "A fad",
you confidently say,
fading into history down Scott Street
with your clip clop.
A long jammed CD player,
a non-working i-something, 
a rusty TV satellite dish 
sunk in the garden's chives and nettles.
You, half-understanding, 
gripping an over-buttoned remote,
sitting by a pile of reminder notes:
"Find the Netflix account number",
"Can I get better broadband via Skye?"
"Is Ivanhoe on i-player?",
"Where is the dongle of Midlothian?". 
When your granddaughter calls
you explain, again, 
how many farthings in a shilling.
When your daughter calls,
she explains, for the fourth time,
what "+" includes in "LGBTQI+".
"A fad", you confidently say,
fading into history,
down an ever expanding row 
of acronyms 
and redundant passwords.