On the tree-bole a zig-zag upward rivulet
Is a dodgy bird, a midget ace,
Busy as a shrew, moth-modest as lichen.
Inchmeal medical examination
Of the tree’s skin. Snap-shot micro-scanner
And a bill of instant hypodermic.
He’s unzipping the tree-bole
For deeper scrutiny. It sticks. It jerks.
No microbe dare be, nor bubble spider.
All the trees are waiting – pale, undressed –
So he can’t dawdle. He jabs, dabs, checks essentials,
Magnet-safe on undersides, then swings
In a blur of tiny machinery
To the next patient’s foot, and trickles upward
Murmuring ‘Good, good!’ and ‘Good, good!’
Into the huge satisfying mass of work.