I faced an odd dilemma as I was writing this column last week. I had made up my mind to present three little pieces of poetry that seemed to me to be both interesting and related to recent news events.

Two of them were written by the heads of the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church, and my dilemma was that I couldn't make up my mind which one, according to precedence, should be presented first. OK, this wasn't exactly the hottest dilemma on the face of the planet, I agree. But I still had to work my way through it.

The thing was this - His Holiness the Pope, head of the Catholic Church, had published another book of poetry.

Meantime, Her Majesty the Queen, who is still the head of the Anglican Church of England, had published her first poem.

The way I see it, much of the civilised world must be dying to figure out which of them writes the better poetry, and they are getting not so much as a clue from the traditional media. I am prepared to fill that breach . but who to put first?

"Debrett's Correct Form" is the bible for those who are interested in British ideas about precedence and protocol, but on the Queen v Pope question, it is more or less silent. It may be there is still an undercurrent of hard feelings, dating back to Henry VIII telling the Pope of that day that he outranked him in Britain, which caused a fuss, as you may remember.

Nonetheless, I thought there were clues in Debrett's. Protocol for dealing with Her Majesty is right at the front of the book. The section dealing with Churches comes about 100 pages later. Even within that section, the Catholic Church isn't listed anywhere near the top. It comes well after the Church of England and after a great many other churches as well. It comes after the Presbyterian Church of Ireland, after the Salvation Army and even after the Moravian Church in Great Britain and Ireland. The Moravian Church. Is that a clue, or what?

The way I work this out, Debrett's is quite clear. We're British here, Her Majesty's poem must come first, and His Holiness is lucky I don't have 100 pages to push him to the back of.

Her Majesty's untitled poem was written in the visitor's book at the Castle of Mey (which is on the very northern coast of Scotland, near John O'Groats, looking out onto the Pentland Firth, in case you're interested).

Although we must leave you,

Fair Castle of Mey,

We shall never forget,

Nor could ever repay,

A meal of such splendour,

Repast of such zest,

It will take us to Sunday,

Just to digest.

To leafy Balmoral,

We are now on our way.

But our hearts will remain

At the Castle of Mey.

With your gardens and ranges,

And all your good cheer,

We will be back again soon

So roll on next year

As an example of the sort of a poem you would find in a visitor's book, this one is about right, isn't it? As one slightly self-conscious English critic wrote: "It is not Paradise Lost, nor is it intending to be. I think it is admirable work, which is very touching, and Her Majesty should go far."

Ha. It must have been a temptation to muse on just how far Her Majesty had to go. But on the whole, his verdict was a nice blend of accuracy and diplomacy, and we shall say no more about it.

The Pope's new volume of poems, his second, is entitled Roman Tryptich. Some of it is secular, some of it very much of the Church. The bit I am going to quote is interesting because in it, he envisages his own death, and what might happen among the Cardinals who gather to choose his successor.

It is from the Epilogue of a longish poem, Meditations on the Book of Genesis at the Threshold of the Sistine Chapel. Those who have been there will remember that the height of that ceiling, and the extraordinary power of Michelangelo's frescoes, would dwarf even a meeting of elephants in the chapel below.

It is here, at the feet of this marvellous Sistine profusion of colour

that the cardinals gather -

a community responsible for the legacy of the keys of the Kingdom.

They come right here.

And once more Michelangelo wraps them in his vision.

"In Him we live and move and have our being."

...

The Sistine painting will then speak with the Word of the Lord:

Tu est Petrus - as Simon, the son of Jonah, heard.

"To you I will give the keys of the Kingdom."

Those to whom the care of the legacy of the keys has been entrusted

gather here, allowing themselves to be enfolded by the Sistine's colours,

by the vision left to us by Michelangelo -

so it was in August, and then in October,

of the memorable year of the two Conclaves, and so it will be again, when the need arises after my death.

Michelangelo's vision must then speak to them.

"Conclave" : a joint concern for the legacy of the keys of the Kingdom.

They will find themselves between the Beginning and the End,

between the Day of Creation and the Day of Judgment.

It is given to man once to die and after that the judgment!

A final transparency and light.

The clarity of the events -

the clarity of consciences -

It is necessary that during the Conclave, Michelangelo teach them -

Do not forget: Omnia nuda et aperta sunt ante oculos Eius.

You who are in all, show the way! He will teach you...

Well . I think this is not an even contest at all. The Pope is in a different class entirely, isn't he?

Perhaps his plain-vanilla language might be criticised a little, but no one can deny that his dependence on the might of Michelangelo, not the Almighty, to give the cardinals guidance is a nice notion that saves the poem from becoming over-egged very quickly. And no one can deny that his acceptance of death and the generosity of his spirit in the face of it are noble and worthy things for one of the world's holiest men to muse upon for us.

So it's His Holiness's turn to come first. Congratulations, Sir.

But it's my turn to have the last word. I have been taken aback over the last few weeks, during the argument about whether Bermuda should become a special friend of Cuba's, by how little thought has been given to those who have been imprisoned for disagreeing with Mr Castro. It is one thing for someone to spend time in prison to pay for a crime - people who commit crime take that risk. But it is quite another thing for ordinary people, leading blameless lives, to be swept up and thrown into jail for little more than wanting to have their own opinion.

This little piece of poetry was written by an American poet, Carolyn Forch?, after she had lived for two years in El Salvador. It is called The Visitor and comes from a collection published by Jonathan Cape in 1983, called The Country Between Us.

I hope it will make the experience of those 75 unfortunate Cubans, now reportedly being held in isolation cells in maximum security jails, a little more vivid for those whose imaginations can't make the leap without prodding.

In Spanish, he whispers there is no time left.

It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,

the ache of some field song in Salvador.

The wind along the prison, cautious

as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching

the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath

slipping into his cell each night while he

imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.

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