At three in the morning we woke Her up and She saw that the world outside was white. Later, much later, She walked with us. The green lane was banked with snow, tunneled with thorn trees and in the distance St Davids sat cloaked in white.
To the top of the hill we walked again, a ginger string of cat beads, amber bright in the white.
Yesterday in hospital Mr Griffiths had asked about Maes y Mynydd, so today this is where we walked. The house was cold, and Maurice walked where once a fire had burned in a hearth and warmed a family and cats long gone.
Now only ruins remain and the wind whispers their story to those who will listen and the stones fall, year on year.
Away from the old village we left the ghost cats to wander the walls and the great Garn Y Wlad looked down over us. Cold buzzards circled overhead, and snipe flew out from beneath our paws.
Back home we curled on the sofa and snow flakes fell outside all afternoon. She drew the curtains, heaped coal on the fire, brought a great bowl of hot chocolate and watched The Company of Wolves, in the company of tigers.