When you find something, something in the moor,
You can’t help but stop and wonder what it might be for.
A brush to comb an angel’s wing?
A diadem to crown a king?
Perhaps it’s something simple,
Like a tophat or a thimble.
Maybe fairies dropped it there,
To mark something special here.
Or perhaps it’s just a stick or a wild cattail you have bound.
One thing is for sure: Imagination is something found.
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