Postcard

Bare toes, tipsy foes,
granite rock, distant shores,
deep oceans, saltiest of sand,
greetings lion, footsteps of the man;
in a palm of your trees,
through the wind on your track,
with Sun as your chariot,
signature on the back.

Come, rest your weary head,
writings on the pillow,
a woman has said,
in a bottle of wine colour is red,
dim the light,
no shadow to dread.