Philip Larkin. Going, Going.

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 climbSuch trees as were not cut down;I knew there’d be false alarms In the papers about old streetsAnd split level shopping, but someHave always been left so far;And when the old part retreatsAs the bleak high-risers comeWe can always escape in the car. Things are tougher than we are, justAs earth will always respondHowever 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 crowdIs young in the M1 cafe;Their kids are screaming for more—More houses, more parking allowed,More caravan sites, more pay.On the Business Page, a score Of spectacled grins approveSome takeover bid that entailsFive per cent profit (and tenPer cent more in the estuaries): moveYour works to the unspoilt dales(Grey area grants)! And when You try to get near the seaIn summer . . .       It seems, just now,To be happening so very fast;Despite all the land left freeFor the first time I feel somehowThat it isn’t going to last, That before I snuff it, the wholeBoiling will be bricked inExcept for the tourist parts—First slum of Europe: a roleIt 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 onIn galleries; but all that remainsFor us will be concrete and tyres. Most things are never meant.This won’t be, most likely; but greedsAnd garbage are too thick-strewnTo be swept up now, or inventExcuses that make them all needs.I just think it will happen, soon.