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.