Her fingers clutched mine,
as footsteps approached,
and voices overwhelming,
became insurmountable.

All I could recall was,
father scrounging the shelf,
for orange pill of eternal sleep,
as raindrops pierced the ceiling.

The little he whined of his clumsy hands,
as he fed Adam the eldest,
Malory the maid,
that hid in the attic since a fortnight.

My mother swallowed,
and then me,
and the last thing to entice me was
the lamp that lay broken.

The lamp that fell,
as the capped men with silver knifes
and muddy boots,
walloped the front door.