On my walk round the green meadow in the sun splattered musing mornings, I used to see an old lady of the neighborhood, sitting straight like a lone statue of cold stone on the road-side bench I always crossed. The golden stream of molten sunbeam cascaded down the reticulate web of rills on her septuagenarian fragile face. She would raise her thin ivory hands from the recess of reclined lap unmoved, flail in frail gesture in the scented air, murmuring ‘good morning’ perhaps, I could hardly hear in the rustle of leaves, but my long day waited to begin with the shining dawn of her smile, drenching me in silent shower of joy. I still walk as the senile sun rises everyday, but its searching ray saddened like me doesn’t find the lady on the bench, but she walks smiling down the memory lane.