GOING, GOING - by Philip Larkin

 

I thought it would last my time - 
The sense that, beyond the town, 
There would always be fields and farms, 
Where the village louts could climb 
Such trees as were not cut down; 
I knew there'd be false alarms 


In the papers about old streets 
And split level shopping, but some 
Have always been left so far; 
And when the old part retreats 
As the bleak high-risers come 
We can always escape in the car. 


Things are tougher than we are, just 
As earth will always respond 
However we mess it about; 
Chuck filth in the sea, if you must: 
The tides will be clean beyond. 
- But what do I feel now? Doubt? 


Or age, simply? The crowd 
Is young in the M1 cafe; 
Their kids aree screaming for more - 
More houses, more parking allowed, 
More caravan sites, more pay. 
On the Business Page, a score 


Of spectacled grins approve 
Some takeover bid that entails 
Five per cent profit (and ten 
Per cent more in the estuaries): move 
Your works to the unspoilt dales 
(Grey area grants)! And when 


You try to get near the sea 
In summer . . . It seems, just now, 
To be happening so very fast; 
Despite all the land left free 
For the first time I feel somehow 
That it isn't going to last, 


That before I snuff it, the whole 
Boiling will be bricked in 
Except for the tourist parts - 
First slum of Europe: a role 
It won't be hard to win, 
With a cast of crooks and tarts. 


And that will be England gone, 
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes, 
The guildhalls, the carved choirs. 
There'll be books; it will linger on 
In galleries; but all that remains 
For us will be concrete and tyres. 


Most things are never meant. 
This won't be, most likely; but greeds 
And garbage are too thick-strewn 
To be swept up now, or invent 
Excuses that make them all needs. 
I just think it will happen, soon.