I am a golden mountain, yet I have no rock, Born of the harvest, I am built for the stock. If you lose a tiny needle, you must search through me, But if you light a match, I turn to ashes instantly. What am I?

I hang on a neck but I’m not a tie, With every step, I testify. Clang and clatter through field and dell, A farmyard’s chime you know too well.

In a swamp where the creatures do creep, A gooey green blanket they keep. It sticks to your shoe, And smells a bit too, A slippery slop do you seek.

In rivers I glide, sleek and wide, Shells I crack with a splash at my side. Playful antics in the water I display, Dancing in currents, come what may.

A full lunar cycle I last, Can't eat or drink while the Sun is cast, Easy? Try it, you'll change your tune, My harbinger is the crescent Moon