The Last Pine

In a Victorian photograph of this village, a line of towering pines delineate between the boundaries of habitation and the open countryside of the Downs. All but one were lost to the hurricane, to disease and the passage of time. The one remaining is opposite my study window – visible from miles around, a landmark used by all to indicate arrival in the village or as a means of finding your way home from a hike.

Today they arrived to cut it down. No one was told, no one was informed, it was set upon without ceremony or lament.
The tree now has a disease which means a strong wind – perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in five years time – will knock it over and it will destroy things, maybe my things since I am within the sweep of its highest bows. So they’re cutting it down.
I would have taken the risk but no one asked me. For a moment I thought about grabbing a chain and locking on but the tree is dying and this I hope this is better than allowing it to rip out of the ground the next time the wind is too high.
So I lament and mark the passing of this tree and the 200 odd years it has stood over our village and I hope there will be an outcry. I hope people will rebel against its dispatch, complain that they were not consulted, demand an explanation for the loss of this magnificent life because it should not be allowed to pass unremarked. There was just cause in this case, but people should want to know that, to value the life of a tree and its place in nature over what might be the whims of the council, or home owners who re-arrange nature to suit their ends.

In a world without balance, which places a value on things over the natural order, you have to find hope in the smallest of places and in the defense of a lone tree.