Hawthorn

There are better things to do
On a sinking ship
Than poetic exultation
Than hearing a garden audition
And Chronos measures time
Rotates the hourglass
Time flies consequently
Inexorably
When a blackbird toddles
And then takes a flight
A dog bitterly barks
A rabbit hides in a den
Blooming hawthorns scent
Pink is the color they bloom
There are better things to do
On a sinking ship