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.