Peter Clarke (1929 - )
Helen Martins


mixed media
50 x 35cm

In Nieu-Bethesda the village is small even though the world
is big. Sometimes in the blackness of the night here in the Little
Karoo like a small child I grow old amazed by the millions
of diamond-stars flung scattered by God's hands across space.
It is like a dream, a fantasy.
When the sun rises I look at the light of day gleaming through
bits of broken glass reflected in the mirrored spaces inside
my house. These are like tiny, tiny flames within crushed ice.
It warms my silent heart, like unheard music - day in,
day out, throughout the changes of the seasons & the years.
The villagers have their own peculiar opinions about me & my
passion. It is perhaps their right. But the plaster people &
varied creatures that surround me, waiting, watching, surveying
the goings on in the village & the unmoving mountains,
the world & the sky, think their thoughts & keep it to themselves.
Preoccupied, they ask nothing of anybody. Slyly people
look at them & pass by on their way.
Within the quiet spaces of my Owl House I live a lonely harmless
existence. Inside my house silence is reflected. I wait.


2005 Michael Stevenson. All rights reserved.