Black and grey realism full sleeve tattoo on an arm, showing an angel with wings, a robed bearded saint, a raven and a clock face with Roman numerals.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Angel, saint and clock full sleeve

Realism · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A shirtless man shows a full sleeve covering the shoulder and upper arm down towards the forearm. The design includes a winged angel at the top, a robed bearded figure holding a staff in the centre, a raven on the lower arm and a clock face with Roman numerals near the elbow, set against smoky clouds. The work uses fine shading and smooth gradients in black and grey ink on a plain, patterned indoor background.

Realism Shoulder Upper arm Forearm Angel Wing Staff Raven Clock Roman numeral Cloud Smoke

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The clock in Saint Cuby's chapel had been stopped since the night the sea smoke rolled over the headland, and every islander who climbed the path for a burial still glanced up at its Roman numerals as if it might forgive them for being late. Nobody on Carrick ever wound it. The keys hung on a nail by the font, and the nail was rusted into the stone.

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Morwenna Pell was nine that winter and had no patience for rust. Her father mended nets in the lee of the quay, and her mother had gone across to the mainland on the last boat before the fog closed the strait and never sent word. The old sexton said the saint would keep the hours if the hours were asked nicely. Morwenna thought asking was for people who had already given up. She took the key from its nail and climbed the tower stair while the raven, Tallow, shifted on the rafter above her and muttered its black opinion of children.

The saint stood carved in the north wall with his staff planted in the flagstones, looking down as though he had heard every bad joke the island had ever told. Above him the stone angel's wings were furred with soot from the year the lamp caught. Morwenna set the key, turned it seven times, and the great wheels groaned into motion. The hands jumped to the hour the mainland boat was due, and somewhere down the coast a horn answered.

When she came down, the fog had lifted from the headland and the boat was tied at the quay with her mother stepping off it, shaking water from a red shawl. Tallow sat on the lychgate with the key in its beak, and then, with great ceremony, it dropped the key into the sea. Morwenna never got it back. The island has kept time by the tide ever since, and the clock in the chapel has never once been late.