I stood at a stall in the market and looked at the books for sale.  A book of poetry caught my eye and I bought it.  It was cheap, so cheap that no profit was probably involved.  It was a book to be handed over, passed along.  It was by a poet that I have never heard of before, but that is irrelevant.  The lovely Sharon had wondered off and the little man was mesmerised by the hustle and bustle around him.  So I parked up the buggy and stood and read the first two poems.  They moved me.  I forgot the world around me and instead swam in the emotions of the poem.  The second was a sad one.  True, and in its truth horrifically sad.  I guess that’s poetry.  I guess that’s what it does.