Ninth

Upon the ninth day of September's sigh,
The leaves turn amber, a quiet rustle,
As the school bell rings its familiar chime,
Children in neat blazers tread the cobbled mile.

In music's humble scale, the ninth ascends,
A whisper of the tonic, stretched beyond the octave,
It hangs between the consonance and restless doubt,
A colour that musicians learn to recognise.

Old Tom, the tabby, claims his ninth life,
With whiskers tweaked like silver telegraph wires,
He prowls the midnight garden, silent as a thief,
And leaves his paw‑prints on the dew‑kissed grass.

So ninths appear, in calendars, in chords, in fur,
Each a threshold, a quiet step beyond the known,
Inviting us to pause, to count, to wonder,
And find, in every ninth, a hint of endless growth.