Deforestation, the destruction of mass quantities of foliage is one of the biggest problems that face our generation as 55% of all trees have disappeared.
With swaths half the size of England being lost every year, thousands of species of animals are beocming endangered with no home, shelter or food.
Our reporter, who has been looking into the story, has shared a feature on the harrowing experience of deforestation from the point of view of the tree itself as if it was a conscious being.
What is this, the thing that I am. What are these green things perched upon my many arms. Why is this gritty brown stuff covering my many legs. Why do the squirrels scatter up and down my body, and the birds nestle in my wild hair? And most importantly, why do the walkers hate me.
I grew up hundreds of years ago, with all my brothers and sisters, cousins, friends and neighbours in the rich brown earth, feeding on sunlight and clear drops as I rise above the horizon and stretch out my many arms and shake the many green things that protrude from them.
I was everywhere. All over this spherical object upon which i grow. Sometimes I am in hot weather. Where scaly, slithery things hang down from my many arms and colourful feathered birds swoop and dive around me. Sometimes I am in cold places, where the green become brown and drop mercilessly to the dead floor, and the black and white badgery things come shuffling and sniffling round my cracked, old and wrinkly trunk. I was everywhere.
Today I am not so much, I do not see so many places. I do not hear so many noises. I do not feel so many paws and claws and scales and trails all up and down my body. I used to see the whole world and now i only see 30% of it. And there is one reason for this. The walkers came.
I hear the walkers, I hear their voices and I hear their footsteps and I hear their noisy chains. I cannot see them from way above the metropolis, but I know they are there. I feel them.Those are the things that hurt me. Whenever I hear the footsteps, What I fear all over the world, is that when the footsteps stop, the chains will come.
I feel the pain of my brothers and sisters and cousins, friends and neighbours. And I hurt all over the world. I want to plead the walkers to stop, but they can’t hear me. They can’t hear me because they wear those noise muffler things. I think that’s so they don’t have to feel the pain too. Because if they could hear me scream, they would.
I am tilting, and tumbling, and falling. For the first time in hundreds of years I can see my many legs. I hit the floor with a thud and it hits me too. For the first time I do not feel so strong. The horizon has fallen on its side and I am confused and scared.
I do not know why this is happening. And as I lay on my side, and the light fades. I think to myself. Why don’t the walkers like me? What if I was different? What if I was square. Like the Square brick things that they emerge from in the mornings. I wonder if they know that while they chose to kill me, I try so desperately to keep them alive. I wonder if they know. Surely they must know.
What was this. The thing that I was. What were these green things perched upon my many arms. Why was this gritty brown stuff covering my many legs. Why can the squirrels no longer scatter up and down my body, and the birds no longer nestle in my wild hair. And most importantly, why did the walkers come.