16 MAY 1987, Page 30

Morning's at Seven

We breakfast with a peaty Irish voice And think of those young men, scarce more than boys, Imprisoned in the Maze for so-called crimes, Severing so-called legs and so-called arms.

Out in the Punjab, turbanned freedom-fighters Have commandeered a bus of wives and daughters, Fathers and sons, old men and women, born And unborn babies. All await their turn As freedom-fighters separate them out, The Hindus from the others who are not.

Then line the Hindus up and shoot the lot.

The Archbishop says that England's lost her soul.

A good day for religion on the whole.

John Whitworth