Friday Poetry: The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost
Friday Poetry: Viewing Time by E V Milner

Friday Poetry: Dawn Hippo by Sydney Clouts

The size of a cavern for men to crouch in

by fire trickling small;

for demons uttered by name

to crowd like tropical thunder

and crackle against the wall,

he domes the birth of day;

built moving on the river,

shrubless mound on weighty sheen,

a large derisive slope

hammering back each ray,

he floats his quiet hilltop

he sizes up the morning;

a zone of bubbles happens round is head,

streaks of his glitter spear them dead,

breaking the break the day.


A fine froth scums his sides like primitive acid,

birds with sharp beaks fly over him;

he bulges landward

choosing a shelved approach

the water shallows where he wants it to,

pushes in savage rings that smash

high reeds and rock the river. Mud swarms,

mud slimes his paddling belly as he climbs

heavily wagging the water away.

The full ridiculous splendor mobs the stones;

thunder and lightning jostle on his bones.