Bude's Western Light

Strange Lad's plea for Bude to cultivate its own light.

The slithering rain on the flat pane
Hides Bude’s bays and brews from my eyes,
Like fears that hide within me, a cover
Breeding self-doubt where my own spirit lies.

They say the skies will stay grey, the jobs are dying,
Forecast screens devour hope, dreary warnings,
Where prompted screens serve futures thin and grey,
Idle minds, where thoughts once brewed-now cold and lying.
But I won’t let their naysaying weaken me
Steal the sunlight that’s meant for me and thee.

We’ll plant seeds where screens ran dry
Local hands in dha soil, beyond the visitors' eye.
Shape our surfboards, still our gin, bake our bread,
Here, where idle minds once froze, new learnings take root.
No dark tides to wash our dreams away,
Bude’s own light grows stronger day by day.

And side-by-side, my pal, through wind and tide,
Let Bude be the bud-tend its roots, spread its light wide.