There's a poem by George Orwell in which he writes about standing in a semi-rural landscape, on a fast decaying farm which stands in the shadows of the city and its burgeoning industry. He writes about a time when everything was changing and people who had been raised on the land were now faced with factories and order. He's in a limbo on this farm, looking at what he now realises is a wasteland but both repelled and attracted by the glittering city of technology ahead of him. The poem reminds of Pomona, how you can stand in a kind of countryside and yet be immediately in the shadow of industry. Pomona feels to me like stepping into Orwell's poem. It is that same ruined farm in that it has been allowed to decay whilst the rest of the city races on, and although there's no purpose to the land it goes on to flourish. Perhaps if Orwell had stayed at the farm gate for long enough he would have seen the emergence of new life in the ruins. 

I feel, and with a sharper pang,
My mortal sickness; how I give
My heart to weak and stuffless ghosts,
And with the living cannot live.