PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Redbrick leans into the salt wind,

fingers tracing faint ridges in damp sand.

“Where is my oyster?” he asks 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 even would it be?” 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.

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