The valley slides off the hillsides
and bottoms out, flat and riverless.
Dry-gulching they called it from
under stetsons white and black
- and it looks a likely place of ambush.
Purple sage on distant slopes
lacks only riders to lend it
iconography.
And yet this isn't Montana, New Mexico
-or yet any Western mythagora-
but Malaga in winter.
Walking through the rutted mud
in the cool valley bottom,
I tip my imaginary ten-gallon hat
to the campesino high in the saddle.
Comments
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 17:33
That's him.
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 17:33
Puts me in mind of that that spaghetti Western... The Man From Almeria.
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 17:35
You're quick on the draw today pardner. A man don't get a chance to edit. A Fistful of Tapas?
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 17:38
For a Few Dolores More?
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 17:42
'Course they shot all those in Almeria, didn't they? I like 'em well enough... but ah prefers to see the white hats and the black like in them ole horse oprys.
'Specially those ones with good 'Merican names like
'Rio Bravo'
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 17:44
Anyway, just how is Stefano going to make out this one is about writing?
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 17:45
That there will be hard to beat. The Good, the Bad and the Expat Community?
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 17:47
Stefano? Wasn't he a pool cleaner in Eldorado?
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 17:49
Naw, that was Bob Mitchum!
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 17:54
Maybe I'm thinking of Ringo in Candy.
Ewan | December 6, 2008 - 18:27
A performance matched for ineptitude only by his own in 200 Motels.
chuck | December 6, 2008 - 18:49
So true. Not one of cinema's greatest moments. And sometimes the Sixties seems like 200 Motels played backwards at speed.