Shuck

On the wind‑kissed pier at dawn,
the tide pulls back its silver curtain,
revealing rows of pearl‑clad secrets
nestled in the cold, damp sand.

A weather‑worn hand grips the knife,
its blade catching the first pale light,
and with a practised twist—
the shell yields, a soft sigh escaping.

The oyster shucks, revealing
a glistening orb, brine‑kissed and bright,
a taste of ocean’s whispered promise,
served on a bed of crushed ice and lemon.

Each crack is a small rebellion,
a moment when the sea gives up its guard,
and we, mere mortals, partake
in the quiet ritual of the shuck.

So let the gulls cry overhead,
let the waves lap steady and slow,
while we savour the fruit of labour—
the simple, salty joy of a shucked oyster.