It’s nervous and unnaturally bright, this world. Trust feels stupid for ever believing. Pity’s been hosed off the street. Here though is your honest face, and here are things that soothe. We lie by the fire: half of my face hot, the other half on your chest. I’m consoled by your heart: okay, okay. I can face things, I can face the world only if you’ll sit with me.
Moira Kirkwood has written creatively all her life, but things started to take shape when she joined the South Coast Writers Centre several years ago. Her life is a strenuous and mostly unsuccessful attempt at balancing the demands of both writing and painting. Neither practice takes kindly to being neglected and really makes you pay, once you return with your tail between your legs.