Holy cross between your breasts,
Where it belonged, you wore it like a crest,
But your beauty I might never capture,
Plain and simple, simple rapture.

David Sweetsur gives us a selection of poetry spoken in a voice which is honest - sometimes brutally so - and perspicacious, he is deeply engaged in the observation of the world without as well as within - he is not blind to the darkness of urban streets, the duplicitous nature of politics and politicians, nor to the uncertainties of emotions and existence that continue to haunt mankind.