Thumb

In the quiet of a morning flat,
A thumb rests soft upon the glass,
Leaving a warm, amber print—
A silent signature of touch.

It hitches rides on lorry backs,
Points north when maps are lost,
And in a child’s sleepy grasp,
It finds the comfort of a thumb‑sucked thumb.

So small, yet mighty in its gesture,
Our humble thumb: the world’s first map.