Along a shore of silver hush Where tide-lines curl and foamlines blush, A walrus wide with whiskered grin Met a carpenter, lean and thin. The morning wore a salted breeze, It whispered secrets through the seas, And in its hush, the odd pair stood— A wanderer and a man of wood. “Come walk,” the walrus softly sighed, “The oysters wait where currents glide.” The carpenter tipped back his hat, “Well now… I’ve got no quarrel with that.” They wandered where the sands were strewn With shells that hummed a briny tune, And gathered oysters, slick and round, Like hidden coins half-buried, found. But work was slow—talk faster grew, For both had lives the other never knew. The walrus spoke of polar nights, Of frozen moons and dancing lights, Of wrestling storms on jagged floes, And dueling sharks with tusk and blows. “I once,” he bragged, “faced down the gale That split in two a whaling sail— The sea itself had called my name, And left me crowned in icy fame.” The carpenter just raised a brow, And drove his shovel deeper now. “Well,” he said, “that’s fine and grand, But I once built a house on sand— Not just any shack or frame, A palace carved from driftwood flame.” He spoke of ghosts in attic beams, Of doors that opened into dreams, Of stairways climbing into sky, And clocks that ticked but never tried. “I dined,” he said, “with kings of dust, Who turned to wind the moment—trust— And carved a ship from a single tree That sailed without a crew or sea.” The walrus blinked, impressed and still, Then laughed—a low and rumbling thrill. And oysters piled beside their feet, Forgotten in their tale-filled meet. The sun sank low, a molten coin, Still neither thought to stop or join The simple task they’d come to do— For stories felt far richer, true. Till twilight stretched its purple seams, And silence crept between their dreams. They looked at last upon the shore— The oysters… gone. Not one. No more. The tide had come without a sound And swept their silver harvest down. The carpenter let out a groan, The walrus sighed a softer tone. “Well,” said one, “we’ve lost the day.” “Well,” said the other, “in a way…” And both then grinned beneath the stars— For though they'd lost their shells and scars, They’d traded truth for wild delight— And built whole worlds before the night.
