15 August 2025
Gabrielle Munslow, currently a Senior Mental Health Nurse Practitioner with the Transition and Pathways Team, worked with Tony in the East Brighton Older People Community Mental Health Team, where he was a care manager, on secondment.
She says:
"Tony always looked out for the whole team, making sure no one was left without support. Losing him was a terrible shock to the team and was felt by many people across the Trust. His kindness and humour made even the hardest days lighter, and I still carry that with me."
Tony, 53, was survived by his fiancée, Lara; daughter, Gemma; mum, Barbara; sister, Judy and Adam his nephew.
John Child, Chief Operating Officer and service director of Brighton and Hove mental health services at the time of the tragedy said:
"I have really fond memories of working with Tony. He really cared about our patients and their families and also his colleagues. Ten years on, it's important we remember Tony and the other ten men who tragically lost their lives."
The disaster had a huge impact on everyone connected to the Sussex community. Our psychology teams played a big role in supporting emergency responders affected by the incident.
Gabrielle, who is a writer alongside her job with the Trust, felt inspired to write the poem to mark the anniversary.
"I wanted to mark the ten-year anniversary by honouring Tony and all those who died in the disaster. The poem took a while to write and it imagines things stopping in time; reflecting the impact of grief.
"I don’t want Tony or any of the other people who lost their lives to be forgotten. It's a final goodbye while keeping his memory alive."
Poem in memory of Tony Brightwell and the eleven lost at Shoreham
Torn by the Sky by Gabrielle Munslow
It was sunny the day our hearts broke away.
A decade has passed — but some wounds ignore clocks.
The news bloomed like bruises on a nation’s chest.
Shoreham stood still.
Time forgot how to move.
Eleven men.
Men of mornings and small routines.
Lunchboxes. Laughter. Motorbikes.
Some had children. Others still were boys.
And one…
one kept wildflowers on his phone.
Pixels and petals — quiet proof he was thinking of her.
There’s no symmetry to this grief.
It leans sideways and doesn’t apologise.
It smells like engine oil and lilies.
It hums in the throat of widows and mothers,
grows moss in the cracks of pub tables,
clings to the wings of the plane that didn’t stop.
Somewhere, a bottle of red remains uncorked.
Somewhere, a bike rests against a wall no one will move.
Somewhere, wildflowers still bloom -
and someone remembers
the men who loved flight
but stayed grounded
for everyone but themselves.
Now, even the clouds carry their names.
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