i ventured down there again and still didn't find the sleeping bag, and no, it's not in the closet either. i did find this, though.

my sleepy touch finds cold, damp stone.
the tide of fog rolls in.
diluted rays, obliquely warm,
catch sight of a lonely fin.

the hungry, squawking birds advance.
a whole flock comes in sight.
the weakest ones don't have a chance
when vying for a bite.

a pale and liquid sun remembers
how to burn through clouds.
a wet flame in the seaside timber
disperses the raucous crowd.

my tired eyes squint and turn away
as sunshine floods the air.
another morning on the bay,
the gulls don't seem to care.

/19 dec 1984/