reading the weather

an ominous dull red in the low sky
bespeaks a storm and doesn't only warn
but tells us that the very air is torn
in search of comfort now the swallows fly
nothing else moves nothing seems dry
the world regards us with unbridled scorn
another monster will shortly be born
the time of shattering draws nigh
we name the winds but they are never tame
there's trust in stone but even that may fall
what we can do seems little at this time
the whole thing's nothing like a silly game
what falls first will till now have stood tall
the hope we had is now fallen from its prime