Comments about Roger Stapenhill
A Bird Sings
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 ...