Ode to an old home

There is a wooden door,
With old hinges,
And with relentless coastal winds,
Rocks its familiar creak.

Smooth slabs of false stone,
Wait patiently for the perfect moment,
On the most London of days,
To splice my leg in one swift slip.

Moss fills the gaps,
Where nature sees negligence.
And on this cold December day,
The sun gloats.

Smoke, sexy smoke,
Moves quickly,
Nevertheless swaying its hips,
As it escapes from my lips.