A YOUNG poet is facing her own D-Day after being asked to write a piece to mark the allied invasion of war-torn occupied Europe.
Laurence Jackson School student Olivia Flint is the poet laureate for the Vision Academy Learning Trust.
She has been commissioned to write a poem for the D-Day celebrations on June 6 marking the 80th anniversary of the historic landing of allied troops in France that hastened the beginning of the end of World War II.
Her school was renamed Laurence Jackson in 1968 from Guisborough County Secondary Modern School which is was called from being built ten years earlier.
A keen writer, Olivia has been researching the man who lent his name to the school, Colonel Laurence Jackson CBE, a war hero at Dunkirk who played a significant role in the D-Day landings, the latest in a number of Trust commissions to mark significant events.
“I was very fortunate to be appointed poet laureate by the Trust following a competition last October,” said Olivia, 14, of Guisborough.
“I have always had a flair for English and have loved writing since I was at nursery school where I wrote stories about pigs and teddy bears. Laurence Jackson School introduced me to poetry which has been amazing.
“I have always been a history enthusiast too and have been looking into Laurence Jackson who it seems was badly injured in the war but persevered and saved the lives of many people.”
Olivia hopes to pursue an English-related career, possibly journalism. “I couldn’t really tell you where I get my ideas from,” she said. “I just sit down with a notebook and just start writing.”
Headteacher Catherine Juckes said: “Olivia is a very talented writer with a genuine love of prose and we are very much looking forward to reading her next piece of work.”
Olivia’s poem - In Honour of Colonel Laurence Jackson CBE
Death is a musician.
Striking the drum, beating strong in my chest; Banging the cymbal, crashing loud in my ears; Playing the flute, with the cadence of my breath.
His music envelopes me,
In a rhapsody of solace.
He lulls me away from the canon of war And I hear, as He sings me to sleep.
His fingers plucking at my spine, Strumming at my limbs, Calling for me to perform with Him In His vast, macabre orchestra.
But I am not ready yet.
I must compose my own symphony; March to my own tempo; Build to my life’s crescendo.
And so, I will.
Death may be a musician, But I am the conductor
