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 are 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.