That winter had teeth sharper than

butchers' knives, enough to make

walls shiver inside paper coats.

Honestly, it was that cold.

Why ever did you think a featherweight

Hillman Imp could fight a blizzard 

all the way to Anglesey that night? 

An early knock-out was inevitable. 

Opportunity came knocking in a 

snow-white anorak, arms wrapped 

tight as a straightjacket, quivering 

apologies about needing to use a phone.

They told you the rescue services were 

stranded too. Inevitably, you had to stay, 

mother insisted, of course it's no bother,

we have a spare room, and made the 

first of many teas.

On the settee, TV off, we began to iron out 

the awkwardness, talking, inevitably, about 

snow and your decision to drive, then

suddenly and spontaneously guffawed

when you said, "the crazy obligation 

of a young nurse"

in a comic voice that bounced back

softly from warmed walls, as I reached 

out to try to hold your words. Raising his 

head, I sensed laughter in our chocolate 

labrador's eyes, as he nuzzled 

closer, filling the space between us.

In time I came to realise the inevitability of 

events on that bleak winter's night in 1963; I 

learned that love finds you, not the other way 

round, and that dogs eyes tell you everything, 

but only if you look close enough.