The Orwell Diaries

By Peter Kenneally

George Orwell spins in his grave slowly
slowly evidently it rained very heavily during
last night he can feel the
way the world's turning his coffin creaks
elm trees are all yellowing,
beech trees not so much voices
drift down through
the clay take his name
in vain while rough
shod horses turn over each stone in every
well explored avenue fine, still, sunny but
not particularly warm the wound in his
neck begins to ache again the day clouds
over the voices fade away the hedgerows glisten
heap turf so as to rot
rough-dig the new patch
transplant all the fruit bushes
he feels the ground
shake he stops turning
extremely heavy rain all night & in the morning
as the groundwater rises toward him
he tries to say
though his mouth
is full of wet clay
the trouble with competition
is that someone always wins

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