Chris Bird
The monster felt reflective.
She stared out from the rooftop at the midnight city.In the central plaza stood a huge Christmas tree.
Moonlight outlined spires and domes,
endless factories, offices, and gardens.
On the surface the city had a certain dignity.
Yet the monster sensed that under the superficial life
of the city there was another story.
In the shadows street cats glanced up at the monster.
The cats were elegant,
moving between the surges of darkness.
The monster looked up at the distant moon.
The moon and the monster were old acquaintances.
“Henrietta the Monster, come back to me for silence.”
In fact, the moon’s offer was appealing to Henrietta.
The monster glanced down at her colourful poker dot patterned socks.
She was rather proud of her stylish footwear
which had been gifted by a distant star.
She looked across the midnight skyline.
She scratched her ivory horns.
The moonlight tingled on the monster’s horns.
“That moon speaks a lot of sense,” thought Henrietta.
Out of the silence came a mesmerising sound
like a small bell trembling with golden chimes.
On a nearby rooftop a ghost shimmered into view.
The ghost wore antique clothing
completed with an old-fashioned top hat.
The phantom waved at Henrietta.
“Lovely night isn’t it!” declared the ghost.
“Christmas is here again,” smiled the ghost.
The ghosts of the city waited until midnight to appear.
During the day the ghosts occupied statues
and monuments around the central squares.
Ghosts walked along the pavements at night,
remarking on how much the city had changed.
Henrietta gave a “thumps-up” to the ghost.
Then she leapt beyond the rooftop
and landed in the city park.
Despite her great size she moved with grace.
This was her favourite location in the night city.
Trees swayed in the midnight breeze.
The old trees were very accustomed
to the monster and each nodded in greeting.
Henrietta patted the trunk of a tree.
Two young lovers had scratched
a heart on the bark beside their names.
Then the great monster noticed a pale shape beside the pathway.
She crossed the wide lawns.
“Where are you off to?” whispered the moon.
Born in London in 1967 to a working-class family, Chris Bird developed an interest in poetry and drawing from a young age. However, his twenties saw the onset of his schizophrenia. He became homeless in London during a time when rough sleeping was still illegal. Eventually diagnosed and receiving treatment, he took part in writing and art workshops for people with mental illness. He has continued writing and drawing to this day. His first anthology, Transmission (2023), published by Write-London, explores his experiences of homelessness, undiagnosed schizophrenia, and heroin addiction.