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A place for the waxwings by Daniel Nixon

Beneath branches of cedar

we made a case for ourselves

in the slim, cut-through air

of winter. Scrabbling around

in the roots, you found

a cassette tape—two reeling

eyes loaded and drunk

with delicate black ribbon.

You pulled at the thread

until we were knee-deep

in music and, pirouetting

like the summer just gone,

you barely left a mark

in the hollow, spent needles.


Daniel Nixon is a writer, poet and musician who lives on the

southern edge of the Peak District.


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