
In days of old we would snap these stalks
and ignoring the milky sap that flowed
we held the spheres of fluff up to our lips
and with a gentle puff we blew until each
tiny frond detached and left us holding
a soft green tube bereft, bareheaded
wandering if the time was as it told
or perhaps was just an old wives tale
then later remember as everyone said
that later you would surely wet the bed.

We used to chant, What’s the time, Mr Wolf. Oddly, it was always too early to go home for tea!
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I’m from Devon, you’re from Norfolk, curious we should both say, “Mr. Wolf.”
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Perhaps with the movements of people during and immediately after WWII, lots of customs moved with them. Children evacuated, etc
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