i lean into the salt wind,

fingers tracing faint ridges

in damp sand.

 

“Where is my oyster?” i ask the horizon,

its answer swallowed by surf.

 

Kester Reed waits behind a driftwood break,

taps the shell-shards underfoot,

listens for that hollow note

that might be its name.

 

“What would it be, even?” he murmurs,

searching for shape in shadows.

 

Oak Fern skirts the rockpools,

eyeing brine-glazed coves

where molluscs linger.

She maps their silver glint,

plots their hidden curves

against the turning tide—

                  still no oyster.

 

Between three voices

the question ripples:

a glint, a gap, a longing.

 

Brine settles on lips,

salt blooms on tongues.

We shift identities hoping

one will name the pearl within silence.

 

Where is my oyster? We gather shells,

piece by piece, and realise the hunt

                    is the oyster’s secret.

 

Its shape lives in our asking,

its glimmer in the space

between each new name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.