next >>

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.