A curly headed man with russet beard
  and swishly banded feathered fine-brimmed hat
  clasps a heaven-hid woman’s hand descending
  out of a sleeve of cloud. Prevailing space
  means we can’t see her body, arm or face.

  Hold on. Hold on to love descending as
  a hand from nowhere. Here comes poetry.
  Out of her spongy light-flecked cloud she’ll tender
  far finer guidance than a mother will
  and more than all your hope and longing fill.