This month's poem enables us to see Gina's skill in using words built into shapes. Sadly our pheasant had a brush with a vehicle or maybe a naughty dog on the way here and the end of his tail has gone missing. The flat version contains all the words. [Bryn Jones]

 

Pheasant strutting like a lord in green-sheen balaclava,

trying to attract a mate so he can be a father,

flicks his tick of yellow eye, hides pride behind a mask,

displays his vicar’s collar in this mixed-up-matching task.

 

He preens red pencilled feathers, shakes shavings from his back

and points a scaly leg as though he’s ready to attack

the dull brown bird he’s spotted, but greets her with a cry

that’s like a throttled engine that’s threatening to die.

 

She turns away, this dull brown bird, plays hard-to-get which brings

a ruffle to his plumage, a clockwork whir of wings,

a launching of his body, a tearing of his mind –

divided as his airborne tail as he leaves her behind.