A country lane, awakening Spring,

hedges and trees, leafy offering.

Young lambs bounding across the field.

The willow soon its catkin yield

and a bird sings peace.



A sparkling brook, a rabbit plays.

Dry rutted track, meandering ways.

First butterflies from chrysalis state.

An old cat sitting by cottage gate

and a bird sings peace



Distant Country, season blurred,

Spring is but another word.

Broken bodies, a young child cries,

terrorist action, in soldier guise

and no bird sings peace.



Newly dead by rotting carcass,

sour war smell and burning houses,

all gone now but a new disease.

Homeless, hungry refugees

and no birds sing.


Roger Stapenhill


A Bird Sings