That the fish spoke is certain.
Halcro and Einar both heard it in the net
And Gunnar, running, too.
But what it said –
A something of sweet sounds –
No one could say.
Halcro was all for keeping it,
But Einar not, and Gunnar probably.
The boy fingered and half cradled it,
The light flashing on each scale
Like silver spilling in his arms,
And stroked it like a cat,
But it said nothing more.
When, suddenly, without a word,
It slipped and somersaulted free.
That day the sea was kind with herring.
Our nets swam, threshed, and sagged.
Whether it followed us or no,
About an hour or more we heard
Within the depths beneath a harp,
A jangling, Gunnar swore,
And Einar (he was the poet always)
Perhaps something more fantastical.


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