A land

Here is a land, utterly low and strange-seeming, completely steadfast and common, bitter with stringy television wires, wet with last week's grey rain under leaden skies, forever musing with respectable, sad complacency on browns and greys and must of midnight roots.
The natives here are maybe (some of them) proud of the place, maybe craggy old dudes stuffing their noble pipes proudly are fond of it, fond of say this hillock or that backstreet, misty-eyed about some family or other back here and all connections and memories thereof.
Who constructed this place, who strung despair in this valley? Flagging industrial pirates, soulless coal exploiters, murderous dwarfs cuddling in barely-lit latrines. The very sadness of the fact that anyone can be bothered to construct such very anxiously dull, brownbrick, dead buildings everywhere and to a uniform relentless pattern too. Dreamy, hopeless village of disappointments sleeping brownly in pastoral workingclass smokestacks.