I have been told
Pride doesn't come into it,
But that barely begins
To describe you, Edward.

I've heard whispers
Of your ninety years,

The last two decades
Marred by constant pain,

Your shoulders hunched,
Your back crippled
In armistices.

I've been told
Pride has nothing to do with it,
Yet I see it beyond

The dapper suits,

Tailored to perfection,

In the way you stand,

Facing the sun,
Before your voyage
To New York.

Edward, the Dandy,
A gentleman of the old guard,

A man of the world,
Who cursed Sydney
And missed the point
Of Singapore.

You traversed the globe,
To the far-flung corners
Of the modern world,

A tireless explorer,

A seeker of new horizons.

But beneath the veneer
Of adventure and grace,

I sense a deeper story,
Edward, the man
Behind the façade.

I wonder of the war,
The battles you fought,
The scars that lie hidden,
Beneath the creases
Of your tailored suits.

I think of your son,
Lost in the African sands,

A wound that never heals,

A silence that echoes
In the chambers of your heart.

I imagine the pain,
The physical toll,
The weight of years
On your weary shoulders.
Yet, through it all,
Edward,
You stood tall,
A pillar of resilience,
A testament to the human spirit.

Pride, they say,
Has nothing to do with it,
But I see it in your eyes,
Edward,
The pride of a life well-lived,
A life of adventure,
Of resilience,
Of a gentleman
To the very end.

(For Edward 1879 - 1969)