The Dome of Light

Here is the seventh of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained glass window 1 for background. This image depicts two large trees with brown trunks and green foliage, set against a sky-blue background. To the left, there is a stylised white architectural structure resembling an archway or pavilion, reminiscent of classical or Mughal architecture. The foreground is adorned with bold, colourful flowers-large red and white petals with dark centres-creating a lively and inviting atmosphere.

A limerick starter

In a garden where poppies convene,

With trees tall and temple pristine,

Said the daisy, ‘I vow,

I'm more sacred than thou!’

But the oak rolled its eyes at the scene.

The Dome of Light (in the style of William Wordsworth)

I.
There lies, not far from Brighton’s pebbled shore,
a quiet dome of softened light and stone,
where seagulls wheel and salt winds lightly roar,
and oft the thoughtful go to sit alone.
Upon its wall, in coloured pane confined,
a glass of wonder greets the roaming mind:
red poppies bow, and daisies wide and bright,
beneath tall trees and sky of ocean light.

II.
Young Thomas came, a boy of nine or so,
with sand-stung cheeks and shoes still full of brine.
He’d left the surf and Brighton’s bustling row,
drawn inwards by a hush near the Palace fine.
He climbed the steps, and in the silence deep,
he saw the glass, and there he stood in sleep -
that waking dream when hearts begin to stir,
and all the world grows soft and feels unsure.

III.
For in the glass he saw his mother’s hand,
once firm in his, now ashes by the sea.
She loved the Downs, the flowers, sky, and sand -
and made a garden by the old oak tree.
She’d told him once, ‘Where poppies ever grow,
you’ll find me there, beneath the evening’s glow.’
Now here they bloomed, in crimson glass agleam,
their black-eyed centres caught in ageless dream.

IV.
And there - a gate. No house stood near its path,
no road, no hedge, no stone, no sign of man.
Just open sky, and grass, and ocean’s wrath
tamed into lines of blue within a span.
He traced it with his eyes, this quiet place,
and knew it was not Brighton, yet its grace
felt of the town - of pebbles, gulls, and shore -
yet bore a silence Brighton never wore.

V.
He wept but once, then wiped his face and smiled.
A daisy turned toward him - glass beguiled -
and in that dome, beneath the window’s gaze,
he whispered thanks and walked into the haze.
Back down the steps, and past the salted air,
the beach still roared, the world went unaware.
But in his heart there bloomed a clearer sight:
Brighton, beneath a mother’s dome of light.

Here, once, long ago . . .

Here is the third of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained glass window 1 for background. This one depicts a coastal scene with sandy beach, a patchwork blue sea, and white chalk cliffs topped with green hills - reminiscent of the iconic Seven Sisters near Eastbourne. A seagull soars in the turquoise sky.

Limerick starter

By the cliffs where the wild seagulls glide,

And the waves kiss the shore in their stride,

Stands a view bathed in light,

Stained in blue, gold, and white,

A bright window where memories still hide.

Here, once, long ago . . . (in the style of Virginia Woolf)

The sea, endless, undulating, the light on it like fragments of glass scattered, shifting, uncatchable. She stood on the cliff’s edge, the air thick with salt and memory. Here, once, long ago - or was it only yesterday? - she had stood with her mother, small hand in the larger, fingers pressed into the cool linen of her dress.

‘The tide,’ her mother had said, ‘comes and goes. Just like us.’

Now the tide was low, revealing sandbars slick and golden, the blue water folding over them in sheets of silk. The white bird, fixed in its motion, rose, dipped, hovered - no, not the bird, the light. Or was it her thought, circling, returning, never quite alighting?

She had left. The city had swallowed her, the rhythm of trains and traffic erasing the lulling hush of waves. And yet, here, in this moment, the sea reclaimed her, drew her back into itself, as if she had never been gone at all. The sky stretched, the cliffs stood, the bird soared, unchanging. Only she, trembling, felt the passage of time, the slow etching of years upon the mind like wind upon the chalk-white stone.

She stepped forward, down the winding path that led to the shore, her boots slipping slightly on the damp earth. The wind pressed against her, urging her on, carrying with it the scent of seaweed and brine. She remembered running down this path as a child, feet bare, pebbles sharp beneath her soles, her mother’s voice calling her name, half warning, half laughter.

At the water’s edge, she bent, fingers skimming the foam as a wave retreated. The cold shocked her skin. A piece of sea glass, smoothed and pale, lay half-buried in the sand. She picked it up, held it to the light. Blue, like the window in the old chapel on the hill. Like the sky before a storm.

Footsteps behind her. A voice - soft, familiar.

‘You always did love the sea.’

She turned. And for a moment, the years dissolved like the foam at her feet.

Operation Brushstroke on Glass

Here is the second of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI & I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained glass window 1 for background.

This one is a vibrant tableau of mid-century joie de vivre. A ruby-red convertible bursts forth from its circular frame, promising adventure on sun-drenched boulevards and Brighton Beach beyond. At the wheel sits a debonair driver, sporting a jaunty cap, while his companion, draped in emerald green, gestures with carefree abandon towards the azure sky. 

Limerick starter

Two travellers sped down the lane,

In a car that was red as a flame.

With a cheer and a shout,

They were zipping about,

On a Brighton trip wild and insane!

Operation Brushstroke on Glass (in the style of James Bond)

James Bond and Veronica Steele were speeding down Marine Parade in a cherry-red convertible. Veronica’s scarf whipped behind her as she raised her arm to secure her hair against the wind.

‘You do realise this car is about as subtle as fireworks on New Year’s Eve?’ she quipped.

‘Subtlety is overrated,’ Bond replied, shifting gears as they approached the pier. ‘Besides, it’s Brighton. We’ll blend right in.’

As they reached the pier entrance, Bond parked with deliberate carelessness, drawing more than a few curious glances. The pair strolled onto the wooden planks, their eyes darting between the garish carnival games and food stalls. The salty air mingled with the scent of fried fish and seaweed. As they entered the Winter Garden, the sun poured through the stained glass dome, casting a kaleidoscope of colours. 

James Bond leaned casually against a bar, ordered a martini, and let his sharp blue eyes scan the bustling crowd. The image above him - a vibrant depiction of a man and woman in a red convertible - seemed almost prophetic.

‘Careful, Bond,’ said Veronica Steele, appearing at his side. She wore a green silk dress that matched her piercing gaze. ‘You’re staring at that stained glass as if it’s going to offer you answers.’

‘Art has a way of speaking to us,’ Bond replied with a smirk. ‘And this one seems to be saying “trouble ahead.” ’

Trouble wasn’t far off. Somewhere among the revellers was Emil Kovacs, an art smuggler turned arms dealer who had stolen a priceless microfilm encoded with nuclear launch codes. MI6 had intel that Kovacs planned to hand it off tonight on the iconic Palace Pier.

No sooner had his martini arrived than Veronica whispered ‘there’, nodding toward a small group just beyond the exit, outside, with Kovacs at its centre.’

‘Stay close,’ Bond murmured.

They approached casually, blending into the crowd until they were within earshot. Kovacs handed over a small package wrapped in brown paper just as Veronica stepped forward.

‘Excuse me,’ she said sweetly, ‘but I believe you’ve dropped something.’

Kovacs turned, startled, but before he could react, Bond had him pinned against a carousel’s painted horses.

‘Let’s not make this difficult,’ Bond said coolly, relieving Kovacs of both his weapon and the package.

The man in the yellow jacket bolted toward the end of the pier, but Veronica was faster. She intercepted him with an elegant sweep of her leg, sending him sprawling onto the wooden planks.

‘Well done,’ Bond said as he cuffed Kovacs with a set of MI6-issued restraints. ‘You’re proving quite useful.’

‘I aim to please,’ Veronica replied with a sly smile.

As they walked back toward their car with Kovacs in tow, Bond glanced up at the stained glass dome glowing faintly in the distance.

‘Art does imitate life,’ he mused.

‘And life with you is never dull,’ Veronica added.

The night air carried their laughter as they disappeared into Brighton’s neon-lit streets - a red convertible gliding through chaos like a brushstroke on glass.

#palacepier #BrightonBeach365 #BrightonBeach #Brighton #BrightonLife #VisitBrighton #BrightonUK #BrightonAndHove #brightonpier

Stained glass window 1

In the beginning, piers were built as landing stages for boats, though they evolved into promenades where people could enjoy the sea and the sea air without getting wet. However, there is another way of looking at piers: as the elongation of beaches. In this, I am with Rachel Carson who wrote, in her 1955 book The Edge of the Sea: ‘A pier is but a pathway for those who wish to walk where the land meets the sea, a man-made extension of the beach’s timeless conversation with the tide.’

Thus, just as I have defined the limits east and west for BrightonBeach356 - see How long is Brighton Beach? - I am now stating my intention to consider the piers as part of Brighton Beach, a la Carson!

Moreover, I am also revealing an intention to run a series of posts inspired by the much over-looked stained glass windows in the Palace of Fun building on Brighton Pier. There are 45 windows, though two have slats rather than glass, and there are 24 designs in two sizes. Most designs appear twice, and the duplicates are sometimes reversed or with a slight detail change. 

These beautiful and characterful stained glass designs seem to have been cheapened by their amusement arcade surrounds, and forgotten over time - I can find no evidence of them being designed or installed, I will, however, have more to say forthwith about these windows. Meanwhile, over the 365 days of 2025, AI and I will endeavour to let each one inspire their own daily post. 

A limerick starter

Two windmills stood high on the hill,

Turning round with a whistling thrill.

They spun day and night,

With the sea in their sight,

And they never, not once, stood still!

The Windmills and the Sea (in the style of D. H. Lawrence)

The wind rushed over the rolling hills, bending the grasses with its force, carrying the scent of the distant sea. Mary stood at the crest of the land, watching the twin windmills turning - slow, steady, relentless. They had always been there, just as her father had always been at sea, just as her mother had always stood at this same window, waiting.

Below, the land curved in smooth undulations of green and brown, reaching towards the edge where the cliffs met the vast expanse of blue-grey water. The tide was coming in, waves curling against the rocks with a kind of eternal purpose, much like the windmills.

She had grown up in their shadow, listening to their groaning creak as they spun in the wind, their movements as inevitable as the cycle of seasons. They stood like sentinels, watching over the land and the sea alike. But today, Mary felt a change. There was something different in the air, a charge beneath the steady rhythm of the blades slicing through the sky.

A figure moved near the base of the western mill - Samuel. His presence always unsettled her, a shadow in the otherwise predictable landscape. He was a man of the land, thick-shouldered, hands rough from work, and yet his eyes carried something deeper, something searching.

‘You’re watching the sea again,’ he said as he came closer, wiping sweat from his brow.

She did not turn. ‘The tide’s changing.’

He followed her gaze. ‘It always does.’

She wanted to tell him about the feeling in her chest, the stirring that had begun to take root ever since she had received word of her father’s ship - lost. Not wrecked, not sunk, just. . . missing. Somewhere beyond the horizon. She wanted to tell him that she felt as if the windmills, steady and ceaseless, were whispering something new today.

But instead, she said, ‘One day, I will leave.’

Samuel’s hands tensed at his sides. ‘And where would you go?’

She exhaled, watching the windmills, the sea, the endless sky. ‘Anywhere the wind takes me.’

A gust of wind rushed over them, and the great wooden blades groaned, turning, turning - just as they always had, just as they always would.

And yet, for the first time, Mary felt something shift.

Modern art sublime

Today, I found this abandoned bike on Brighton Beach, beneath the pier, unwanted, unloved. Nevertheless, ChatGPT, with a little persuasion and guidance, has found it to have not only an existential soul but all the trappings of ‘modern art sublime’.

Ode to a Brighton Bike

Upon the pebbled Brighton shore,

A bike lies wrecked, it rides no more.

Its wheels once spun with daring flair,

Now caged behind a steely stare.

Rust blooms orange on its frame,

A monument to love’s disdain.

Who left it here, mid salty spray,

To languish, rot, and fade away?

A boot still clings - its sole protest,

Against this life of cruel neglect.

Once partners speeding down the lane,

Now stranded, stuck in seaside shame.

A basket, bent, with secrets kept,

Might whisper tales of rides adept.

Of groceries, or lovers’ trysts,

Now home to sand and seaweed mist.

Oh Brighton Beach, you fickle host,

To broken dreams and driftwood ghosts.

This bike, once proud, now takes its place,

Among the ruins time will erase.

So passersby, do pause and glance,

At this sad bike’s ironic stance.

A relic bound in seaside grime - 

Brighton's answer to modern art sublime.