Village

[qwerty_H]

revised:

Village

A gray antique haunches deep
to white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef
a way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it out to the sea.
"Each man, of his own must leave his comforts,
help to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be,
but first casts one last stone out to the sea.


Original

Village

A gray antique haunches deep to
white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef a
way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it into the sea. "Each
man, of his own must leave his comforts, help
to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be, but
first casts one last stone out to the sea.

[rowens]

It does feel both gnarled and rocky. Or like a tangled net. And that might work for it.

[Heartafire]

Village

A gray antique haunches deep to
white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef a
way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it into the sea. "Each
man, of his own must leave his comforts, help
to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be, but
first casts one last stone out to the sea.

I kind of love this image of the little fishing village. You've done a fine job bringing it to us.
"The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling"
The metaphor "antique" , really nice. I like the indentations you've placed, don't know why. Thank you, I enjoyed this very much.
Heart

[Brownlie]

Village

A gray antique haunches deep to
white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef a
way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it into the sea. "Each
man, of his own must leave his comforts, help
to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be, but
first casts one last stone out to the sea.

Wow, I like your ending here. Good sensory detail to. This is actually quite beautiful.

[qwerty_H]

Thank you all for your kind words.

[billy]

some really great lines [each man sculls his own reflect] it's a great image for rowing. [The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand] is another for obvious reasons. the problem i have with it isn't the repetitions, most of those feel as though they were done purposefully, the prob i had was with the enjambment, the 1st line of the 2nd stanza. the 1st line of the 3rd stanza. reading them breaks my concentration and makes me stop mid poem unduly. there are more place where the same thing occurs.

Village

A gray antique haunches deep to
[ind]white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
[ind]from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef a
way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it into the sea. "Each
man, of his own must leave his comforts, help
to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be, but
first casts one last stone out to the sea.

[qwerty_H]

some really great lines [each man sculls his own reflect] it's a great image for rowing. [The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand] is another for obvious reasons. the problem i have with it isn't the repetitions, most of those feel as though they were done purposefully, the prob i had was with the enjambment, the 1st line of the 2nd stanza. the 1st line of the 3rd stanza. reading them breaks my concentration and makes me stop mid poem unduly. there are more place where the same thing occurs.

Village

A gray antique haunches deep to
[ind]white sand, arranges a collection
of polished stones within a ring of kelp
[ind]from which the sun has baked the smell.

He can watch the launches up the reef a
way. Each man sculls his own reflection,
stands skiff-deep in netting shouldering
each craft to escape the shelf

that rings the harbor. He picks a polished
stone and tosses it into the sea. "Each
man, of his own must leave his comforts, help
to bring the village harmony," he thinks.

From the well-swept village he can see
Ko' Chi running toward his sandy seat,
calling, still unheard in the distance, but
the same, "Grandpa! Grandpa! time to eat!"

He turns his face instead toward the sea,
where the sun is now grafted to the meeting
of its perch, the sky bruised from its passing,
and tosses another stone out to the sea.

The gentle sound of little feet tamping sand
hurries louder with each tide-pass, so he fists
another stone with knuckles thick from mending
netting, now that his frame's too brittle for sculling,

rises slowly, returns to all that he must be, but
first casts one last stone out to the sea.

good points, I have adjusted the line breaks and updated.
Thanks!

-H