Now, my last poem before I call upon Peter Redgrave
to help me out is called "Logan Stone."
It's the title poem of my new book.
I come from Cornwall as Lois Shelton says.
This is a Celtic land rich in mystery
at the very west of England.
Among its many mysteries are certain rocks, huge granite
boulders called Logan's stones.
They are balanced very delicately on a rock beneath.
So delicately that a finger can log the rock
or move it, make it tremble.
But nothing can ever quite destroy it, push it over.
And the thought occurred to me that perhaps
human relationships are like this too.
That if there is a tremble in them,
if there is an imperfection they can endure longer.
You are ready to take the strain.
Whereas if they have a seeming perfection then
they are in great danger.
So really I suppose it's a love poem.
"Logan Stone."
If it were one stone it would not be magical.
If it were two stones the attrition of rain
cutting into its natural weakness too well,
it would not be magical.
If it's massif could be set trembling
neither two nor one for a moment only,
say the logging point of nightfall,
it would be magical yet not miraculous.
Small worlds may be born of such magic,
but that it can go on and on without ceasing,
dazzling the spectator with immobile motion
neither two nor one neither one or two.
Doomed and unshakeable on its point of infinity
that is the miracle.
To be so weak a finger logs it.
What constant strength, what force
it takes to be a Logan stone.
You and I what cold applied granite fire logging
on weakness.
No storm can move us.