poem: henry jones, from wales

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  • Critical Perspectives on Accounting (1997) 8 , 189

    Henry Jones , from Wales

    It was quiet at night , and I d wake to the sounds of sheep and the birds singin . The shops was shut tight at five.

    When I was eight they sent me to the south a trainful of kids away from them buzzbombs.

    When the war ended , they sent me home. Me mum had enough kids and sent me back.

    A Lady at the orphanage taught me how to read. I learnt in one year and got me a job fixing lorries.

    My wife s American her father sent for us , bought tickets to the U.S. Back home I was a engineer.

    Here , all I could get was this he leans on his broom , then sweeps it down the long hall .

    He turns , and cuts another swathe as if he were cutting hay . My name s what you write in motels so nobody knows who you are

    But my first name s Henry , like all them kings he nods at my book as he passes , Henry IV , Parts I and II .

    B . B . Adams




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