Cirencester Scene Magazine - Supporting Local Businesses Somewhere Else Writers


We are a group of aspiring writers from Cirencester and nearby villages who meet regularly at Somewhere Else, the excellent deli-bar in town. We produce a wide variety of poetry and prose and are delighted to have this opportunity to share some selected items with you through the august pages of Cirencester Scene.


“Letter to an Unknown Soldier” is our first offering in the month of Remembrance, is an imaginary letter penned by a young girl to her brother in the trenches duringWW1 by Iris Anne Lewis who writes short stories and poetry and is a foundermember of Somewhere ElseWriters. She co-ordinates many of the group’s broadcasts on Corinium Radio.


www.somewhere-else-writers.org


SEWriter Iris Anne Lewis Photo by Jennifer Berry


Cirencester Scene Magazine 01285 659673 07875 071555 info@cirencester-scene.co.uk Cirencester Scene Magazine 01285 659673 / 07875 071555 info@cirencester-scene.co.uk


45


Dear Ted


I hope you are still enjoying thewar. It’s good that you have all your Kempsford pals with you in the battalion, though it’s strange here in the village with no young men, except Joe Howard of course. He helps out on Lower Farm but it’s not good for him,Mumsays, with his chest. That’swhy he didn’t go towar. He coughs andwheezes all the time. It didn’t stop Mrs Gilbert giving him awhite feather last Sunday. It’s wicked,Mumsays, he can’t help his poor health.


Squire Gilbertwas there, too. I don’t like him. He seems to like us, though.


“And how’s that boy of yours, Mrs Preston?” he asked Mum. “Still �ighting for King and country. Capital.”Mumand I bobbed a curtsey. “Nowthere’s a son to be proud of.” And he stared at Mrs Howard.


Mrs Gilbert runs a knitting circle. All thewomen have to go to her big barn on Thursday afternoons. All except Mrs Howard. She’s not allowed. “We are knitting for heroes,”Mrs Gilbert boomed. “Only motherswho bore sons with backbone are allowed to knit for our brave boys.”


I go along too. I’ve already knitted socks and nowI’m knitting a balaclava. Ihope I’ve spelt that right. It’s a funny name for a hat. It looks odd too.Mum says it’s to keep youwarm in winter.We’ll be sending out a parcel soon, so that you get them before the coldweather starts.


It’s summer here. Iwonderwhat it’s likewhere you are? It’s so far away. I asked the vicar. He says it’s quite like the countryside around here, �lat and with lots of �ields.


I’ve been having dreams about the �ields of Flanders. It’s harvest time and thewheat is standing tall and proud. Dotted amongst the golden ears are poppies. A wind is blowing. Thewheat sways thisway and that until it seems thewhole �ield is rippling with gold and �lashes of scarlet. All the time there is more scarlet and less gold. Thewheat is standing tall and proud. Dotted amongst the golden ears are poppies. A wind is blowing. Thewheat sways thisway and that until it seems thewhole �ield is rippling with gold and �lashes of scarlet. All the time there is more scarlet and less gold. Thewheat is scythed down and only the poppies remain. Then I am no longer outside but in a big round buildingwith a high curved ceiling. Although it is indoors it is snowing but the snowis stained with blood. The snow�lakes �lutter down until thewhole �loor is coloured red. And then Iwake up.


I told the vicar about it today. He looked at me through his thick round spectacles and said “Oh dear.” Then he told me a prayer I should say every evening just before going to sleep and then I’ll be protected. It’s bedtime now, so I’ll tell you rather than just say it tomyself, thenwe’ll both be safe.


Lighten our darkness,we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.


en our dar


Allmy love, Elsie


ss, we be ech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mer


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