Where are you heading to, Lascaux horse,
rust and bonfire coloured, running
across the eggshell coloured postcard?
Never mind if your legs appear too thin
to bear your weight, they were never meant to.
You were born like this, caught between the earth
and sky, under someone's moving
fingers clutching clay and charcoal, lit
by uncertain fire light, so you seem
to move in and out of shadows, one
of Plato's ideal creatures, not needing
anything more than this to be alive
and permanent. On the other side
of the postcard, words of love and greeting
from years ago, in some unknown hand.