Missing San Antonio

The small white square of the Alamo
was a glimpse only as we sped past,
one building in a street
of newer, taller, wider forms
that had it surrounded.

It looked ridiculously tiny
but pretty; its crenellated rim
like an edging of lace.

It was natural, I suppose,
that my mind would turn
to the old, sweet song about
the rose: Rose of San Antone,

Where in dreams I live
with a memory …
An interlude of joyful
dancing music, players
like jesters and troubadours.

And the tall stranger afterwards,
talking of shades and angels.
Enchantment strange …
but we had to go.

Broken song …
It plays in my head now
each time I recall those moments,

a tender lament
for dreams half-remembered,
that never were, or might have been....
Deep within my heart …
by the Alamo ...

Submitted (several years later) for dVerse Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic