The blessing of onions

William Street The red globes of light, the liquor-green, The pulsing arrows and the running fire Spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream; You find this ugly, I find it lovely. Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men, In pawnshop-windows, bumping knee by knee, But none inside to suffer or condemn; You find this ugly, I find it lovely. Smells rich and rasping, smoke and fat and fish And puffs of parafin that crimp the nose, Or grease that blesses onions with a hiss; You find it ugly, I find it lovely. The dips and molls, with flip and shiny gaze (Death at their elbows, hunger at their heels) Ranging the pavements of their pasturage; You find it ugly, I find it lovely. Kenneth Slessor